White Collar: An unofficial novel - part 2
by AltanKatt
Summary: This is the tv show White Collar as a novel. It is written from the point of view of Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke. The dialog follows the episodes, but there are also new scenes filling the gaps in the story. I wanted to capture the spirit of White Collar and the friendship between Peter and Neal. Part 2 starts with "Threads" and ends with "the Portrait".
1. Monday

**Monday**

It was Monday morning and Neal Caffrey stepped into the office of the White Collar division in New York. For the first time in a week, the smile on his face was genuine. In the office of Reese Hughes, he saw his handler, Special Agent Peter Burke, sitting with his back to him.

Peter had been on vacation for a week and it had not been the same without him. Not only was his handler the only one in the office who treated him with respect, though he was a convicted felon, he had also been confined to his desk in Peter's absence. Jones and Diana had accompanied him for lunch twice. It had been nice, but without Peter, their comments about his conviction or his anklet had felt harsher than he thought they intended.

Neal had just been out for two weeks. He knew he had to keep up and do his job to stay out of prison. With the other agents, his team members, he was not yet sure if they wanted him there or not.

Peter gave him an odd form of comfort. He knew Peter wanted him there. If he did something wrong, Peter would tell him. He also knew his handler would cuff him and take him back to prison if needed. But he would do so with care and respect. The reason for Peter to put him back would also be Neal committing a crime, not because someone did not like him.

Neal sat down by his desk and opened the file he had been mulling over when he went home last Friday. He heard the door to Hughes' room open and Peter's and his boss' voices. He raised his head and saw Peter watching him. They shared a smile. The agent nodded for him to come.

They sat down in his room.

"Good to see you, Peter. Had a fine week?"

"The best ever," Peter returned with a wide smile. "And you?" Neal shrugged.

"Not the same without you."

"Someone treated you bad?"

"No."

Peter glanced at him. It was the truth. But he was a convicted felon and his teammates had been the ones chasing him. It was an odd situation for both parts. Peter did not push it further.

"Is the anklet still chafing your leg?"

"It's still there."

"Annoying?"

Neal shrugged. He did not think much about it during the days any longer, but every time he changed clothes it was there as a bulky, heavy thing. Not to mention the constant awareness of being watched.

"Let me check it," Peter requested and pointed at the empty chair beside Neal.

"That it's still there? Trust me. It is."

"That it's not too tight."

"Or too loose?"

Peter slid around the desk on his chair and pattered with his hand on the empty seat. Neal sighed and put his left foot on it, exposing the anklet.

* * *

Peter placed two fingers under the strap of the anklet. It was not too tight. Or too loose for that matter, but that was rarely a problem. It was far more common that restrains of any kind was pulled too tight. His guts told him it would go far before Neal complained, even if he had the right to do so. He did not want the kid to suffer because he for any reason did not tell if the anklet caused him pain. Neal was in an exposed position and it was Peter's job to keep him safe.

"Alright." He nodded to Neal and the kid took his foot down. Jones had left him a report of Neal's movements during the week. It was a dull read. It seemed as his convict was extremely cautious. Had Neal not felt safe when he was gone? Had he moved as little as possible not to catch Jones' attention? Time would tell.

"Hughes told me you've done your job when I was gone. Told me you solve a case."

Neal shrugged.

"It wasn't a complicated one. Just boring." Neal had got the case no one else wanted.

"Nevertheless, you helped us catch a criminal." He watched his face for a reaction. "Does it bother you? To put criminals behind bars."

Neal shrugged again.

"Neal, stop shrugging and just answer the question."

"What do you want me to say?"

"You're a convicted felon with an anklet, helping the FBI to catch criminals. How do you feel about it? It's not the Dutchman any longer." Peter looked him in the eye. "I'm not asking to put you in trouble. I need to know, so we can work together in the best possible way."

Neal returned his gaze.

"I know I belong in prison. So does the criminals I help you catch."

Peter did not nod to that statement. Few 'belonged' in prison in Peter's opinion and it was sad that Neal looked upon himself that way. Society did not function if crimes went unpunished, but the important thing to Peter was not the time in prison as much as what happened after the sentence was served.

"Diana took her final exam and is now a fully-fledged agent. She got a job in DC," Peter said to change the subject. "She leaves this week. Thought you should know." Peter would miss her. She was one of the brightest agents he ever had on the team.

"Any plans for lunch?" Neal asked. It was a casual question but Peter felt there was a genuine hope for them to have lunch together.

"No. Have you any ideas where we could go?"

A wide smile spread across Neal's face.

"I know the perfect place."

* * *

The lunch had been pleasant. Peter had told him about Belize and they had chit-chatted about neutral subjects, like art and cooking. When they finished eating, Peter's phone had rung and they had to get back to the office. The place Neal had picked had included a fairly long walk since he knew Peter liked to clear his head that way. So, they needed to get a cab to get back as fast as possible. It was, however, easier said than done.

"I hate this. Every year. Every year, it's like this. Finally squeezed into a train at Union Square," Peter complained. Neal smiled at a woman they met on the sidewalk. "Couldn't fall down if you were shot. Come on. It's impossible to catch a cab."

A cab pulled over and Neal saw it was not for them.

"Hey, Peter, Peter, Peter." He opened the door for the two lovely ladies who had caught the cab driver's attention and considered the cap theirs. They thanked him and he beamed at them.

"Enjoy your day." He met Peter's evil stare. "It's Fashion Week, Peter. Embrace it." You could always choose what to see and Neal wanted to see the good things. In his case, right now, it was the abundance of beautiful women.

"Yeah" Peter huffed and tried for another cap. "Here we go. Excellent. Good. All right." Neal saw that Peter once again would be outmatched by a group of women. They opened the cab door before he was near the handle.

"Oh, no," Peter sighed and then accepted his fate. "Yes. All right. Let me help you here." Neal smiled at Peter's attempt to be charming. "Squeeze."

"We're supposed to be interviewing our witness now," Peter barked, frustrated. Neal decided he had pushed his handler's temper just far enough. And Peter had actually said 'we', including Neal. That was something he had not heard in a week. Peter saw the two of them as a team and Neal loved it.

"Yeah, all right. Relax," Neal assured him and brought out a ten-dollar-note from his pocket and waved with it to a cab.

"That's not gonna do it," Peter protested. Neal sent him a wide grin as the cab driver pulled over. He opened the door for Peter who gave him a glare before he stepped inside.

* * *

"We're after an Israeli counterfeiter. Goes by the name of Ghovat," Peter informed him as they passed into the office. Neal was not sure if he had heard that right. He saw the name on the file Peter handed him and stopped in his tracks.

"We're going after The Ghost?"

"We're going after The Ghost," Peter confirmed. "What do you know about him?" Neal felt his heart beat in excitement.

"Oh, this guy is nefarious. He counterfeit treasury bonds, dollars. He's rumored to be the first guy to crack microprinting on the euro."

"Well, now we can add murder to that list," Peter told him. That was not a good thing. He had never met the Ghost but had admired what he had heard about him. Now he felt little pity for his fellow counterfeiter. Why did so many of them had to use violence? And kill another human being? Nothing was worth it.

In the conference room sat a young, beautiful woman with unruly hair. Her name was Tara. She was pale and appeared frightened as a deer.

"Hi, I'm Agent Peter Burke," Peter introduced himself. "This is my consultant, Neal Caffrey."

She looked at them, gave a short nod, but did not say anything. Neal glanced at his handler, unsure how to proceed. But Peter seemed insecure too.

"Would you like some coffee," Peter asked her. "I'll get you some."

He turned and left before the woman had time to reply. Peter must have felt an urge to leave the room since he did not ask Neal to get it. Neal glanced in Peter's direction and then smiled towards Tara. Except for his own interrogation he had no experience in these sorts of things. Peter was back soon enough.

"You sure he called himself Ghovat?" Peter asked as he placed a cup of coffee in front of her.

"Yes," she nodded without hesitation.

"Okay. What happened?" Peter inquired.

"I was at a party," she began.

"Why were you there?"

"Many models were invited. It happened as I was leaving when I went for my coat. I was in the back room when the two men came in. They were arguing."

"They didn't see you?" Neal asked. Peter sent him a glance, but not of disapproval. She shook her head.

"I made sure to keep out of sight. In the closet. They started shouting at each other. Then suddenly, everything went very... quiet." She paused and Neal saw Peter wait patiently. "The man who called himself Ghovat, I heard him leaving. When I walk out, that's when I saw the other man. He was on the floor already dead."

Neal flipped the file open and saw the photos of a murdered man, stabbed in the chest. It was not a pleasant sight knowing these photos were of a real, dead man. Peter sent him a glance as to ask if Neal had any further questions. Neal had not, and was amazed and pleased that Peter checked with him.

"Okay. Our men are gonna stay with you for now," Peter assured her. "But if you need anything, day or night, you feel free to call me." He pushed his card over the table to her. She took it. "If you heard this man again, do you think you could identify him?"

She stared at Peter.

"I will never forget his voice as long as I live!"

* * *

Peter followed her to the elevator together with Neal and the two men assigned to protect her.

"Have you ID'd the dead guy?" Neal asked when the door closed and they returned to the office. Peter nodded.

"A foreign national out of Turkey, a known associate of Ghovat."

"Falling out over business?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking," Peter agreed. "My working theory this has something to do with Fashion Week."

"Assuming our ghost has something to sell, Fashion Week's a great cover," Neal confirmed to his idea. Peter sighed. It was a splendid cover alright.

"He's got all his buyers in New York this week with no bells going off. Unfortunately, we've got 30,000 buyers."

"We've also got someone who can identify his voice," Neal pointed out and got the look of someone who saw a Christmas tree for the first time.

"You gonna share?" Peter prompted.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy," Neal replied with that happy, boyish smile all over his face. Peter could see little fun in the situation.

"It's never stopped you before," he pointed out.

"We throw a party."

Peter frowned at the sudden change of subject.

"Is it your birthday?"

"No."

"Then you're crazy."

"Okay. Look, okay?" Neal picked up the Ghovat file and opened it, pointing out what he wanted Peter to understand. "Look at this. Monte Carlo, Cannes, Ibiza, Rio. This guy likes to have a good time. We put women, booze, fashion altogether in one spot."

"And what do we do? Send him an invite?" Did Neal even think of this as something serious? "He replies 'Ghost plus one'?"

"No. We bring him to us!" Neal was serious alright. "We've Tara there in the room listening. She can ID him." Neal smacked the folder to Peter's chest, victorious. "It's a party," Neal sang and began to swing.

"Don't dance in the office." Peter had to admit Neal had an idea that could work. If they got it approved. They needed money. And parties were not what was considered as a standard for setting traps.

* * *

"A party?" Hughes gaped at Peter just as he had expected his boss to do.

"The witness is confident she can identify him by his voice."

"How do you know he'll show up?"

"You fill it with beautiful women," Neal answered with a beam before Peter had the chance. Hughes glanced at the kid.

"I was addressing my case agent." Putting Neal on his place. He got the message and shut up.

"Looking at his M.O., he has a thing for models," Peter replied with what he felt was a more informative answer.

"Yeah? Well, me too," Hughes pointed out. "Hey, Jones," he called out to Jones who passed outside the room. "You like models?"

Jones gazed at them.

"Love them," he answered without having a clue what they were talking about.

"Jones likes them too. Is there a plan in here somewhere?"

Peter fought to find the words to express the hunch he got.

"Call me when one shows up." Hughes left the office with his coffee mug and Peter stopped Neal from whatever he was going to say to convince the senior agent. Peter caught up with Hughes outside the office door.

"Look, Caffrey, Ghovat, these guys are cut from the same cloth," Peter started and his boss glanced at Neal as if he was a potential killer. Peter regretted the comparison. "Neal's convinced that our ghost will show up. I say we trust his instincts on this one. We've never been this close to Ghovat."

Hughes considered and then pointed at Neal to join them.

"I'll authorize five grand for this party," he said. Peter noted that he actually informed Neal, not him. It was a good thing. Neal, who had no experience of how difficult it was to get to use the tax-payers' money, looked like he got a single balloon to arrange a kids party with.

"God! Fifteen would be better."

"We'll make five work," Peter assured Hughes and hugged Neal's shoulders to tell him to shut up.

"Yes," Neal agreed. "And we'll get Elizabeth to help us."

What?

"My wife?"

"An event planner," Neal told Reese with enthusiasm. "Best in the business."

How did Neal know what Elisabeth worked with?

"She'll work on the price?" Hughes wanted to know.

"My wife?" Peter asked, still stunned how Neal placed her in the middle of all this.

"Your wife," Neal nodded and turned to Hughes: "His wife."

Hughes rolled his eyes and went for coffee. Neal bumped Peter in the chest with his hand in excitement.

"Don't hit me."

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"What did you think of, getting Elisabeth involved in this?" Peter had closed the door to his office and stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Neal.

"Why not?" Neal did not understand the problem. "She'll arrange a glamorous party during Fashion Week."

Peter's mouth was a straight line and it was obvious he was angry with him.

"Peter?"

"Neal…"

"I'm sorry if I've done something wrong. I thought Elisabeth would like the opportunity."

"You've done research on my wife too." So that was the problem.

"I don't know anything that's not in public records." The man who chased him for three years still glared at him. "Peter, I'm sorry, but it's what I do. I… learn things. You never know what information that can come in handy. So I learn whatever I can find on a subject." Neal felt he just made things worse for himself. "I would never, ever harm her, Peter, you know that."

His handler nodded and his face softened.

"Alright. But for the future, my wife and I do not mix our jobs."

"Elisabeth told me, you told her pretty much everything about me." Was that not mixing?

Peter nodded.

"Neal, I want you to understand something important here. I share confidential information with my wife. I am not allowed to, and I would get in a lot of trouble if this became public knowledge. I do it because I trust her and because she is the most intelligent person I know."

Neal felt a warmth spread through his body when he understood the trust Peter had in him. When it came to crimes Peter had little faith in his ability to stay on the narrow road, but this, this was something else. It was trust that meant something.


	2. Party

**Party**

As Peter had expected, Elisabeth was thrilled. First thing next morning Peter brought Elisabeth and Neal to the FBI storage of confiscated items. El was as a child at Christmas.

"Wow, Royal Ossetra Caviar. Ah! This is gonna be perfect!" she mused. "Ooh! Neal, I just found Springbank."

"Whiskey, perfect," Neal agreed. "I got a Garioch Scotch over here."

"Sixty-five?"

"No, fifty-eight."

"Oh, grab the case," she commanded. Peter sighed. It was like two kids in a toy store and it would mean paperwork for him.

"All right. Come on, we gotta itemize all this."

"Twelve bottles of Scotch," Neal said as he placed the box on the trolley.

"Thirty-six tins of Ossetra," Elisabeth informed the storage-guy.

"Booze and fish eggs, you got that?" Peter asked and the guy nodded. Then he saw Neal holding a watch against his wrist.

"Wow, drop the watch, Convict. We're not on a shopping spree."

"No, it wasn't for me, it was for you."

Nice try, Peter thought but took the watch when Neal handed it over.

"Oh, thank you. There's nothing wrong with my old watch." But he could not resist the temptation to try the gold watch on.

"Honey, actually that looks great on you." El sounded impressed. Peter looked at the two watches beside each other. Like beer and an exclusive white wine, side by side.

"A little out of my price range." He liked beer and was not much for pricey items just for show off.

"There's nothing wrong with enjoying the good things in life," Neal told him.

"Then why do they always seem to end up in here?" Peter took the watch off and replaced it in the box with other watches.

"Okay. So we've got the alcohol and the food covered," Elisabeth concluded. "Now we just need the venue."

Peter grinned.

"Don't worry, I got that covered." He did. But why did Elisabeth and Neal exchanged looks? It had not been that hard to find a place for a party?

* * *

"It's a loft. Seized in a DEA bust. 1 500 square feet, service elevator," Peter showed Neal a photo "It's perfect."

Neal stared at the photo of a small, dull room. Was Peter serious? Had he no idea that this was the worst possible choice for a party?

"Is that a chalk outline?" Gee, had someone got killed there too?

"I'm sure they've cleaned up by now," Peter dismissed the issue. "It has everything you need."

"Yeah, if five drunk frat buddies show up."

"Aren't you supposed to be lining up supermodels?"

Neal's phone pinged. He grinned and looked at the display.

"Ah. Sixty-four and counting."

"Oh, Neal Caffrey throws a party and sixty-four supermodels show up," Peter muttered. Neal kind of enjoyed his handler's tone of envy.

"No, sorry. My mistake. My mistake." He saw Peter ready to gloat. Not this time though. "Sixty-five actually. These two are twins." The phone pinged again.

"Is that another one of your supermodels?"

Neal looked at the message.

"No. It's just a friend." Neal read the message again to be sure. "He's got a place we can use."

"You think your friend's place is better than mine?"

Anything was better, but oh yes, it was. He smiled at Peter, saying 'you're gonna love his'.

"Call Elisabeth and get your guys over there." Peter gave him a look. "The party is tonight and we are short on time. Trust me on this Peter."

* * *

When Peter stood with Neal on the roof-top garden, which not only had a grand view but also was bigger than the loft he had found he could do little but stare. Neal smiled pleased, but Peter could not blame him. This was a spectacular place.

"Okay. It's better than mine" Peter had no problem admitting. "Yeah. Okay. It's a lot better than mine."

"Honey, I'm really impressed with this place. I could have a state dinner up here," Elisabeth mused. "How did you pull that off?" Peter cringed at the question.

"He has a source," Neal told her. "But good luck trying to pry it out of him."

"Oh, sounds like fun." His wife laughed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'll work on him later."

"She'll work on you later," Neal informed him with one of his dashing smiles. Peter just shook his head and focused on the work.

"Okay, guys, I got 20 minutes to get fiber optics in play. I want a camera on every entrance and exit, starting with that one there." Peter pointed and got the team moving. "Right away. Let's go."

* * *

Neal watched the men and women in FBI-windbreakers hide cables in the flowerpots. Then he saw a woman in a glittering dress watching the view by the end of the patio. He walked over.

"Hello. You are definitely in the right place." She turned and was just as stunning from this side as the other side had promised. "You're also a little early."

"And you must be Neal Caffrey," she stated with certainty.

"I am. Would you mind waiting inside for a little bit?"

"Actually, I think I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"Let me escort you downstairs at least." He made yet another effort to get her out of there.

"You know, I gotta say, I expected a little more. I mean, you're charming enough, but…" Something did not make sense of her behavior.

"Who invited you again?"

"The agency." She smiled and Neal felt foolish. He knew FBI agents could be young and charming.

"I thought you were a model."

"I thought you were supposed to be one of the smart ones." She held out her badge to him.

"Neal, this is Agent Lauren Cruz" Peter introduced them. "I just had her transferred over. She's gonna be keeping an eye on you tonight."

And of course, he would not walk around without a chaperone. Even if they knew where he was they could not tell what he did without seeing him. Neal looked her up and down.

"So where do you keep your gun?"

She gave him a look as if he was an idiot. Well, he had not made a good first impression anyway. And she seemed to have as much confidence in charming people as he had. Two of that kind charming each other was doomed to fail.

* * *

Peter sat in the van with Jones watching the glamorous party on the roof-top far above them.

"Damn, Caffrey knows how to throw a party," Jones sighed. Lots and lots of beautiful women making every heterosexual man feel like he was in heaven. And here they were, in the van. "Hey, hey, hey, Agent Burke!"

"What?"

"Hey, is that Miss March?" He pointed at one of the women on the screen.

"Jones, pull it together," Peter rebuked him. Then he looked closer. "Sports Illustrated, not Playboy." Jones took several photos of the woman on the screen with his phone. Peter was glad he had not put Jones to keep an eye on Neal. He would have had his eyes on everything but the young convict.

* * *

Neal mingled with Tara. She wore a beautiful dress showing off her lovely legs. Her hair was stunning. She looked unhappy though. Not strange considering the murderer she feared could be among them.

"Doing okay?" Neal asked. "Come on. You're the most beautiful girl here. I want to see your smile." She smiled. It was fake but she was used enough to cameras to make it look good.

"Neal, straight ahead," Peter spoke in his ear-piece. "Red shirt, dark jacket. Seems pretty jumpy for a guy to be at a party filled with models." Neal saw who he meant. The man seemed to scan for someone and it was not for the stunning women nearby.

"So let's mingle," he told Tara and guided her towards the man Peter pointed out. He stood by the bar and Neal picked up a drink to Tara and him. He caught the man's attention.

"Excuse me. Hi," he began, casual. "I saw you looking around. Can I help you find someone? I know almost everybody here except for you, mister...?"

"Dmitri." The man held out his hand and Neal shook it.

"Dmitri," Neal repeated for those in the van. It was easier to remember for himself, too.

"I'm just admiring the view," the man smiled.

"Beautiful crowd, right?" Neal agreed. Dmitri's eyes took Tara in.

"Quite stunning." A phone rang. "Excuse me." Dmitri fished out his phone and walked away. Neal looked at Tara. She shook her head.

"No dice, Peter. Not our voice."

"All right," Peter replied. Neal saw Tara staring at Dmitri.

"Wait. He's speaking Hebrew."

"What's he saying?" Neal did not turn to look.

"He's saying, 'I'm waiting. Where are you?' Ghovat is here." Her eyes darted around, frightened. "He's watching him. Ghovat's here."

"Peter, he's here. He's watching Dmitri right now."

"I got it," Peter acknowledged from the van. Neal met Lauren's eyes and a plan shaped in his head. They moved closer to each other.

"Back me up," she told the agent. "I need you to flirt."

"What?" she hissed and glared at him.

"You're charming enough, right?" Neal assured her. "That guy right there." He guided her in the right direction. Lauren walked towards Dmitri while Neal checked if it was okay for Tara to leave her side for a moment.

"Hi. Sorry," Lauren beamed at Dmitri. "You look really familiar." Neal saw she caught Dmitri's attention and bumped into him as he passed him. He excused himself and continued stroll. Dmitri had not noticed Neal's hand in his pocket for the second it took him to take his phone. A few steps away he turned and showed Lauren that he had the phone.

Neal dialed the number from the latest caller. A phone rang in the crowd. He looked around and saw a man pick up the ringing phone from his pocket.

"There he is."

"I got it," he heard Peter's voice in his ear. "I got it." Seconds later two agents rammed the man with the phone down on the ground, forcing his hands behind his back.

"Get off me!" he protested. "This is madness!"

"The voice," Tara said beside him. "It's not him."

"Peter," Neal called. "We got the wrong guy." Damn! He scanned the crowd but what was there to see? People were looking at the commotion, many moving away from it. The Ghost had outsmarted them and they had just exposed they had set a trap.

* * *

At home, he threw off his suit jacket and scanned out over Manhattan. He did not like to fail. And in his position, it could mean he could get back inside. The party had been his idea and FBI had paid money for it.

He realized Mozzie had appeared behind him.

"Any luck getting this thing off me?" he asked indicating his anklet. The annoying thing that made him so imprisoned. More than he had thought it would.

"I'm working on it," Mozzie replied. "You're lucky. They have you on a two-mile tether. That's a lot in New York. Remember Jimmy Dimako? The feds had his anklet set at twenty-two feet. He had to take a shower with one foot out of the tub."

"That's not true."

"Okay, maybe thirty feet. But you have it better."

That _was_ true. The FBI had been generous and he was sure it was Peter's doing.

"Two miles isn't enough, Moz. I need to find Kate." Neal walked back inside. "The man with the ring was with Kate in California. Tell me what he wants from her." He slammed the photo of Kate with the male hand on her shoulder down on the table. The ring on the man's finger shone like a beacon in Neal's eyes. "Because he didn't find what he was looking for in San Diego."

"How do you know what he was looking for?"

"Because I told Kate I kept everything, the money, the bonds, the art, all of it, in San Diego."

"Well, clearly that's not the truth because you told me it was all hidden in Portland, isn't it?" Mozzie gazed at him "Isn't it?"

Neal suspected he looked guilty all over his face.

"Oh, there's nothing hidden in either place, is there? It's a test. You told her San Diego, you told me Portland. Then whichever rock gets overturned, you know who betrayed you." Mozzie was upset and Neal could not blame him.

"Look, I just needed to know what I already knew." Though he had not known at the time he told Mozzie Portland, but that was beyond the point.

"What? That you can trust me?!"

"Moz...

"That I'm the one who's been there through all of it? But Kate's the one who kicked over your rock."

"Kate didn't betray me! He forced her to." Of that he was certain. Mozzie, who never let Kate into his private sphere, seemed less convinced.

"Then why didn't Kate try to warn you when she came to say goodbye to you in prison?"

"I think she might have, but I was too stupid to see it." Neal picked up a written paper from the table and handed it to Mozzie. "Here."

"'Weep for me, my love.'" Mozzie read. "'I'll miss you more-' What is this?"

"It's an old love letter. It doesn't mean anything." He took the letter back and folded it so the text that could be read was 'We are being watched.' "The FBI was closing in on us. We started taking precautions. Started passing codes."

"That could be cracked by anyone who's ever seen the back of MAD Magazine." Neal glared at Mozzie.

"Okay, you asked me why I don't tell you certain things. It's that attitude." Like he had never told him about the birthday cards to Peter and his admiration for the man chasing him. For Mozzie, Agent Peter Burke was just another FBI agent who for some unknown reason agreed to keep Neal close by with an anklet.

"I'm trying to be supportive," Moz insisted.

"Look, this was an early attempt," Neal defended the pathetic code. "Okay? We got more sophisticated as the feds closed in."

"So, you think when Kate came to say goodbye to you in prison she left you a code?"

"Look, I need to see that security tape." But how? Where was it stored? At the prison? Ironic if he had to break into a prison to get it.

"Your friend at the FBI has access," Mozzie pointed out. "He's seen it."

"Yeah. He's not just gonna hand it over." Why would Peter let him see it? He was a convict, not to be trusted.

"You... could ask."

Neal stared at Mozzie. Did he just say that he should ask Peter, instead of them finding the tape through other channels? Well, why not? Sometimes the easy way worked.


	3. The Watch

**The Watch**

At the office the next morning Peter noted Neal was quiet. He did not blame him. It was a hard blow to arrange a trap and catch the wrong guy. In the position Neal was in, he was extra vulnerable. Well, their consultant had done nothing wrong and no harm would come to him because of this.

"Thanks for the wine and the cheese," Peter said, out of the blue. Neal stared at him, not getting it. "I set a trap for you once, remember?"

Neal smiled at the memory.

"Yeah. The Monet."

Peter was glad Neal trusted him enough to at least admit to these episodes although he more or less confessed to doing a break-in.

"No one lost their job because we were outsmarted by you. Relax, Neal. You did a good job yesterday."

The kid seemed to loosen up and sent him a grin.

"Ghovat did not leave us any wine though."

"Yeah, too few do," Peter agreed. "The Champaign was a nice touch too."

"It was New Years Eve. I felt sorry for you guys," Neal shrugged.

Peter and Jones had been in the van, surveying a party where they had heard Neal Caffrey would show up. Proof that he was there, and they would call for backup and arrest him.

"Were you at the party?" Peter wanted to know.

Neal chuckled.

"A friend of mine was there first and found your bugs. Then I found your van." They shared a grin. "It was a close call though."

"Was it your friend who helped you with the Dutchman?" A mystery man Peter was dying to meet one day.

Neal nodded.

"He's paranoid. Sometimes it's a good thing."

Lauren stood in the doorway.

"Got some info for you, Agent Burke."

They walked into the conference room and Lauren got the screen started.

"So, our ghost finally has a name," Lauren said as she presented images from the party on the screen in the conference room. "It's Idil Hazeva."

"Let's stick with Ghovat for now," Peter decided. "Do we know anything more about him?"

"Not much. No criminal record. Name's not coming up on any of our international watch lists. We can't find him registered in town." The footage they took at the night showed Ghovat place his phone in the other man's pocket. They could have seen it in the van if they had observed the right man at the right time. They had not.

"Anything about the girl?"

"A model," Lauren shrugged. "We're looking into her."

"What about Dmitri?" Peter wanted to know.

"Andrei Dmitri, Uzbekistan national. Linked to a handful of enterprises." Peter noted pleased that Lauren spoke to both of them, including Neal in the team. "Arms trading, money laundering, prescription-drug fraud."

"Not the kind of guy you'd expect to show up at Fashion Week," Neal noted with a faint smile.

"Yeah," she agreed.

Peter was thinking.

"Does he still think he got away clean?"

"Yeah. He slipped out the northwest exit. Jones is sitting on him."

"Tell Jones to keep his distance. Don't want him getting tagged. See where this guy leads us. Good work."

Lauren smiled.

"Thanks," she beamed.

Peter checked his watch.

"We'll reconvene in an hour." Peter left for his office to get ready for his meeting.

"Where we headed for lunch?" Neal asked. He stood in the doorway between Peter's office and the conference room with his hands in his pockets.

"I'm gonna have to take a pass. Elizabeth wants to meet me in the park."

"Picnic? That's romantic."

"Yeah. Should I be worried?" This was unlike Elisabeth and when something broke from the pattern he became suspicious.

Neal frowned.

"Did you do something wrong?"

"Probably." He had no idea what, which made him nervous. He had checked his calendar and there were no birthdays or anniversaries he had missed.

"Show no fear." Words Neal lived by every day. "Maybe she's gotten used to spending time with you."

"You think?"

"I'm not the best person to ask," Neal admitted. Peter knocked on his desk for good luck and left for the door.

"Hey, Peter, before you go, I need a favor."

He stopped and turned.

"Yeah?"

"The last time Kate visited me in prison before she disappeared, you saw that security tape?" Peter blinked. That came out of the blue. They had not spoken about Kate since one of Neal's first days out. It was just a little less than two weeks ago, but still…

"Yeah."

"I'd like to see it."

Peter looked at Neal.

"You think that's a good idea?"

"It's the last time I saw her. I just want some closure." Did he want to close the case and move on? He looked like a lost, lovesick, unhappy young man where he stood by the door. Innocent and exposed. That was no lie. But Neal could nevertheless have another use for the tape.

"Help me wrap up this case and I'll see what I can do about that tape."

Neal accepted the answer. Whatever he might be up to, at least he was in no hurry to get there it seemed.

* * *

Peter and Elisabeth sat on a bench in Central Park by a lake, eating lunch. Or rather his wife ate. He was too tense.

"This is nice" he squeezed out. "Right?"

"Really nice," El agreed.

"Great." He relaxed. That had not made her explode at least.

She chuckled.

"Relax. You're not in trouble."

"Oh, thank God."

She laughed.

"Why do you think I asked you to lunch?"

"I don't know. That was what scared me."

"Okay, hold on. I got you something." She put her food away and searched her bag.

"You did? What-?" She handed him a white box with a red ribbon. "Wow. It's a nice box." Oh, God, was all Peter could think. Please, do not let me ruin this. "Okay." He opened the box. Inside was a maroon one, glossy. Inside was a new watch. "Wow."

"I noticed you were kind of looking at that really nice watch at the warehouse. It's not as nice, but… it's close." Like she excused herself for not spending a fortune on a watch. All that was needed was something that showed time.

"It's perfect," he smiled at El and studied his gift again. "Yeah."

"Okay, try it on." Peter took off his old one and got help from Elisabeth to put on the new. It had a different latch and the strap was stiff and awkward.

"There you go. There," El finished. Peter stared at the watch. It felt wrong and clunky and a thought about Neal's anklet crossed his mind.

"That's—" He had to admire it, thank his wife. But the words got stuck on the way. "That's—" His phone rang and he grabbed it. "This is Burke… All right. I'll be there at…" He tried to figure out what time it was. There were just two arms and no markings. "Uhh… I'll be there in five minutes. Bye." He grinned at his wife. "Look at that. It works. It works." Elisabeth smiled, pleased with her gift and his reaction.

"It looks good on you."

Damn, if he at least could see what time it was.

* * *

Neal got back to the office after lunch and saw Tara sitting with a suitcase by her side.

"Hey. What's going on?"

"They're moving me now."

"To protective custody?"

She nodded and Neal understood why she looked so miserable.

"No one's threatening you."

"They're not taking any chances." No, she was the only one who could identify their killer's voice. "Came here to get an agent, make contacts. Not this."

Neal leaned down, put her hand on her shoulder and sent her an assuring smile.

"It's gonna be okay, all right?" She returned the smile. Peter came into the office. "If anybody can catch Ghovat, it's him." Neal pointed. Tara seemed to not be sure if he was serious or not.

"Really?"

Neal rose and jammed his hands in his pockets.

"He's the best."

"Hi," Peter said with a vague wave to Tara, like he was afraid she would start crying. He gestured for Neal to come.

"I just got word from Jones." Peter scratched his neck.

Neal stared at the beauty on the agent's arm.

"Whoa! New watch."

"Yeah. Gift from Elizabeth." To Neal's surprise, Peter sent him a glare. "Thank you very much." Elisabeth must have been inspired by his founding in the storage.

"No sundial to clutter it up. Very nice." Elisabeth had good taste but that did not surprise him at all. "What's Jones got?"

"Dmitri's at a fashion shoot."

"Lucky him."

"Guess who's with him."

"Who?"

"Remember that model that was with Ghovat last night?" No words needed to be said. Dmitri was no designer or photographer. The model and Dmitri had no known connection except Ghovat. Time to leave the office for a ride.

* * *

Outside where Dmitri was supposed to be Neal stopped him.

"You just want to sneak in?"

"Neal, we've talked about this." Peter still had the church where Neal lied to the priest in fresh memory.

"Peter, I just want to know if you want to slide in unnoticed, or if you plan to walk in and question everybody."

It was tempting to not need to flash the badge.

"No lies," he warned Neal, who nodded.

"No lies."

"Alright," Peter agreed. Let us see what the kid could do.

Neal patted him in the chest with a grin and then seemed to remember what Peter said last time.

"Oh, I hit you. Sorry. Come. Just follow me."

Neal turned the confidence and the charm on, placed the hands in his pockets and strolled inside the building as he came there every day. How did he do that, Peter wondered. When you walk into an unknown building you tend to look around and find your way. Neal did not seem to do that.

It was not a matter of security, only a matter of blending in and behave as you owned the place. It was not a bank or an office, but a place with the wanted design and background for a fashion shoot. They stood in what once might have been a dining hall. The ceiling was ornamented and golden, held up by fake marble pillars.

"However you got us here, I don't wanna know," Peter mumbled. Though it was not completely true. He did want to know.

"That's our girl." Neal watched the blond short-haired beauty pose in a golden sofa.

"That's our Dmitri," Peter tried to refocus Neal to the one of importance "The guy always looks like he's waiting for something to happen. Maybe he's waiting for Ghovat."

"He lost his phone last night," Neal pointed out. "If that was his only connection—"

"The only way back in is through the girl."

"I'll buy that. You wanna go check it out?"

"No, I can't," Peter sighed. "I start flashing my badge, they'll scatter like rats." When they had got this far it was a shame to ruin it. A federal agent could not stroll around and ask questions without identifying himself. By the other door to the room stood someone who was probably Dmitri's bodyguard. Neal glanced at Peter with that cunning look on his face.

"You trust me?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Trust me to talk to Dmitri?" Neal rephrased.

"What are you thinking?" He was not letting Neal lose on this. On the other hand, they could not stand chit-chatting there for too long or people would notice.

"Stand and look menacing," Neal demanded.

"What?"

"Stand there and look menacing," the kid repeated. Peter put the hands on his hips and put on an angry face. "No. Peter, 'menacing'. You look like your kid just struck out." What? He had dealt with dangerous men. He knew how to scare people.

"This is menacing."

"It's not."

Peter gritted his teeth and protested but Neal continued to shake his head and object.

"It's menacing!" He almost raised his voice.

Neal finally agreed.

"Okay, that's it right there. Cross your arms."

Peter did not have time before he got his arms crossed for him. Then his con man pulled at his suit, making it look bulky.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to let him know you're packing." Peter let him continue but to his horror, he got a pair of ray bans across his eyes. "Yeah." Neal was pleased. "Now say, 'I'll be back.'"

"No."

* * *

Neal sighed. Guess he had to be satisfied that Peter at least agreed to stand still with an intimidating pose. It would have been fun though. Half the charm of what he did was the fun. It was a shame Peter did not get that. Hands in his pocket he crossed the room with a direct aim at Dmitri.

"Dmitri, right?"

The man focused on him and recognized him at once.

"I never got your name."

"No, you didn't."

Dmitri got the intimidating hint.

"What are you doing here?"

"Same thing you are. Just waiting for a chance to talk to our beautiful friend," Neal nodded towards the model. It was so easy to give people an impression of something, making them draw conclusions. "Did you enjoy the party?"

"A little too much excitement for my taste."

"You know what they say, it's not a party until the police break it up."

"Your little event may have attracted a wrong element. As a matter of fact, my phone was stolen."

"That can make it tough to contact people. But… there are always ways to get in touch with someone." Once again Neal nodded towards the woman posing on the sofa in a lovely blue dress.

"All right, let's cut the act. We both know why we're here. I don't know who you are, but you're way out of your league. This takes way more than money."

Neal gave him a superior eye.

"You're not the only buyer interested."

"I'm the one that matters," he stated with ironclad certainty. "You and your friend should take a walk." Dmitri nodded towards his guard who moved towards them. Peter moved too, as any bodyguard would, keeping the menacing pose.

Neal had no problem to let it go. He was there for information, not to win a cock fight. He grinned, and strolled out the door with Peter behind him like a cartoon version of Arnold's terminator. Dmitri's man followed them out. When they left him behind, outside, Neal informed Peter:

"He is definitely here to buy. That girl could lead to where Ghovat is staying."

"I'll have Jones keep tailing him."

"Hey, man, for the record you are much scarier than that other guy. Much."

Peter accepted the appreciation patting a fist on Neal's shoulder. If he had returned Neal's grin he would have had to leave the character. Somehow, Neal got the feeling Peter enjoyed the act after all. Not to mention that he never got his sunglasses back.


	4. The dress

**The dress**

"Looks like your boy, Dmitri, is heading into a hotel on Madison," Jones told Peter over the phone.

"You think he's staying there?" Peter asked.

"He ain't bringing any luggage with him." It did not say much. Just that he was not checking in. But Peter had a hunch.

"Lock it down. Put somebody on every exit. I'm on my way."

Two hours later Peter and Jones stormed into the hotel room where a fight had been reported. No one was there for them to point their guns at. Dmitri lay on the floor dead with a red cloth tucked in his mouth. Whoever killed him they could not have missed him by much. Peter holstered his gun and pulled out his phone.

"Lauren, get the team over here. Dmitri is dead. Make sure Neal knows he'll be facing a dead guy again."

* * *

"Sex games gone wrong?" Lauren wondered as she looked closer at the body.

Neal walked back and forth by the door, uncomfortable. But at least he had come and did his best to stay, Peter noted.

"No. Could just be a message," Neal replied. "Maybe he was trying to shut him up."

"We don't even know if Ghovat was here" Lauren objected.

"No, our ghost was here. The knife wound matches the blade width and angle of penetration on our foreign national killed by Ghovat." Peter pointed at the body. "It's him."

"Do we know how Ghovat got out of the building?" Lauren asked.

Jones came into the room.

"I found a service elevator down the hall," he informed them. "Wasn't on the reconstruction blueprints."

"Which is exactly why he picked this place," Neal concluded.

"Yeah, this guy is good," Peter agreed and saw Neal's focus shift.

The crime scene investigators had removed the cloth from the body's mouth and unwrapped it on a couch draped in plastic. This was something within Neal's comfort zone.

"Why a dress?" he asked as he approached. A dress? Peter rose and focused on the red velvet too. Yes, it was a dress alright.

"I don't know." Peter studied the dress. "It's not off the rack. There's no tag, which means it's couture." Neal turned his head and stared at him. "We deal with a lot of knockoffs. Ask me what I know about a Prada bag sometime."

"Oh, look at this," Neal called his attention. He had his fingers along a seam. "There's a slit here."

"It's about the size of an electronic security strip," Peter noted and explained to Neal: "A lot of the designers are building them into the clothes."

"So, it's a miniature flash drive?"

"In theory, you could piggyback up to four gigs on one."

"That's enough space to smuggle all kinds of information worth killing for." This was not about knockoffs. It was probably not about clothes at all.

"Lauren, get me a photo book of all the designers who had a show this year. Let's find out who made this dress." She nodded. Peter's focused returned to the body again.

* * *

Neal returned to the background again. Peter knew he did not feel comfortable around dead bodies and had told him it was okay. It was bad enough to see a killed man. This man he had talked to twice, shook his hand, looked in the eye.

Someone had killed for a dress and left a message by tucking it down Dmitri's throat. Stolen a possible security strip. This someone had not bothered to take any of the designer's items in the room. Neal opened a jewelry case. The necklace inside was probably made with a particular dress in mind. Dmitri obviously had something to do with fashion after all. Or was it just for show?

"Spread your arms." Peter's voice behind him.

Neal turned, baffled.

"What?"

"Com'on." Peter pulled them up for him and performed a pat-down on him. Neal felt the other in the room stared. Jones and Lauren too. Peter was fast and effective, but the damage was already done.

"Satisfied?" Neal hissed.

Peter gave him a glare.

"Stay away from those cases."

Neal opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. He marched out of the room. He left the hotel and waited for his handler on the sidewalk.

Peter who usually treated him with such respect had done a pat-down on him. He could not get his mind around what just happened in there. Sure, Peter mentioned and even joked about his anklet and his background and situation, but he had always seen them as harmless. Comments and fun to not make him an elephant in the room. Had he misunderstood Peter?

"That was completely uncalled for," he burst at Peter when he too left the hotel.

Peter blinked as he did not understand what Neal talked about.

"Neal, you had no business around those jewelry cases."

"I didn't steal anything! I was working! Figuring out what had happened in there. While you treated me like a criminal in front of everybody."

"You _are_ a criminal, Caffrey. And I couldn't know what you were thinking. It's within my rights to frisk you."

Now Neal got angry. Peter did not live by double standards. But when it came to Neal things were different, after all. Disappointed, Neal turned and walked to the car.

* * *

Peter stared at Neal's back as he left. What had happened? There was some form of misunderstanding he could not figure out. He had never seen Neal so upset. Peter got to the car and sat down beside him. The kid just looked out of the window.

"Neal, I'm your handler, I'm responsible for your actions while we work. You know I have the right to do a pat-down on you."

Peter waited for some form of reaction from Neal. It took awhile.

"It's not about you having the right." Neal still looked out through the window.

"Then why are you so upset? It's not the first time someone frisked you. You must have been that every day in prison."

Peter studied Neal's face. It was a cold mask. This was not a scared kid trying not to show. It was a face creating distance and it made Peter uncomfortable. He had a feeling he had done something terribly wrong but he could not figure out what.

"Neal?"

"I've told you why." Neal sunk back in the seat. "Just forget about it. You won't understand."

He had told him? Peter frowned.

"You stood by that jewelry... I saw a risk and I frisked you..."

"Yeah, you did," Neal agreed. "In front of my colleagues and team members. Or so you claim them to be. Now you made sure they only see the criminal again."

Peter felt ashamed. He had not considered the implications. He and Neal had a special relationship. He knew Neal wanted his trust and Peter had made sure to tell him he would check on him. But he had never considered how the other team members would see it.

"I'm sorry, Neal." He meant it. The kid glanced at him. "You're absolutely right. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have done that in front of everyone."

Neal gave a nod, accepting the apology.

Peter got the car started and left the parking.

"No more pat-downs?" Neal asked.

Peter throw an eye at him.

"You know I can't promise you that." The disappointment glimmered in Neal's eyes. "But I won't do it in public, okay?" That was a promise he could keep. Neal nodded.

* * *

An Israeli designer with the name Avet sat in Peter's office. Jones had picked him up.

"I don't know who this Ghovat is," the man stated first thing when Peter sat down on the other side of his desk.

"You don't know his name, hm? Not even by a rumor?"

"My world is fashion."

Just like Neal, Peter thought. An answer, but not an answer.

"Well, we both know we're not talking about fashion."

"I have a show this evening I must be prepared for."

"That's on hold."

"You have no reason for any of this," Avet insisted.

"Actually, I do," Peter made clear. "Can you explain why one of your designs showed up at my murder scene?"

Avet met his gaze.

"You're the police, you tell me." He did not claim it was stolen, no explanation no matter how ridiculous. No experienced liar, but surely involved. Determined to not give them any clues.

"Whatever you did, resulted in the death of two people," Peter pointed out.

Avet kept his eyes on Peter's face, watching him in silence. There was something in his mimic, like a debate inside his mind.

"And if I didn't do it," he said at last, "my son would be dead also."

Peter got the picture. This was a victim, a father protecting his family. They were finally getting somewhere.

"All right, what happened?"

"A few hours before my team and I are to leave Tel Aviv, my wife calls. Tells me that they have my son.

"Ghovat kidnapped your child?"

"And then I was told to clear my shop and wait for instructions. And then he showed up. Told me I had to smuggle something into the States for him."

"What was that 'something'?"

"All I know is, that it was in the dress."

"That's it?"

"After we cleared U.S. Customs I heard from my wife that my son is returned to us." That was good news. Avet's family was in no immediate danger.

"All right, look, two people are dead because of whatever you helped bring in the country," Peter said with a softer attitude than before. He wanted cooperation, not to scare him. "Is there anything you can tell me about it?"

"Well…" the designer considered. "I can show you the real dress."

* * *

They gathered in the conference room and the designer Neal had been told was named Avet unpacked a duplicate of the red dress they had found on the murder scene. He pointed out where the strip was and an FBI agent cut the thread to the seam. With a pair of tweezers, he brought out what looked like a piece of wire.

"That's it." The wire was placed in a tube and sealed.

"I always make two dresses," Avet told them. "I didn't tell him he took the wrong one."

"That makes sense," Neal figured. "Dmitri shows up to get the dress from Ghovat and finds out it's a fake. They struggle. Ghovat manages to make it out alive."

Peter had been looking at the thread and handed the tube to Neal. It was not much to see. And still, it could contain a lot of secrets.

"So why kill him and bring all that heat?" Lauren asked.

"He's trying to salvage the deal," Peter figured "but can't if Dmitri is running around telling everybody the technology is no good."

"What do you think is on this thing?" Neal asked and returned it to Peter.

"Could be launch codes, covert ID, the formula for a new Coke. Who knows?" He gave the tube to the FBI agent who pulled it out. "But our technology guys will have an answer for us by tomorrow morning." The guy gave Peter a nod and left.

"Something that valuable," Lauren shook her head. "There's no way Ghovat's gonna pack it up and go home."

This seemed to got Peter thinking. He looked at Neal.

"I've got a thought. Let's take our thread and go fishing." Neal hoped that fishing did not include him. The Ghost was no healthy company. But Peter's eyes wandered to the designer.

"You have his number?" Avet nodded.

"Call him. Putt him on speaker. Tell him he got the wrong dress." The man got pale. "You're safe in this room. No one is going to harm you." And then Peter explained what he wanted Avet to say.

Avet nodded and made the call. Ghovat answered and learned that he had got the wrong dress. The poor designer's voice shivered but he spoke to the man who had kidnapped his child. It was only natural.

"How could you be so stupid?" Ghovat growled over the phone.

"Ghovat, please, you have to believe me. I didn't know what you wanted me to do. You didn't want me to know."

"Where's the dress now?"

Good, Neal thought. He is focused on getting the dress, not taking his anger out on the designer.

"It's gone. I sold it."

"You sold the dress? _My_ dress?"

"Someone made an offer ahead of the show. He bought it for his fiance."

"How much did he pay?"

"Fifty thousand dollars."

"Who did you sell it to?" Ghovat demanded. Avet raised his eyes from the phone to Neal.

"To Tony Strong."

* * *

Tara was stunning in the red dress. Neal walked her up to the bar at the luxurious hotel.

"How long will we have to keep this up?" she asked.

"Just long enough to get noticed. You're doing great, Tara."

"I'll be doing better once this is over." She smiled like they talked about something pleasant and sat down on one of the high stools. Neal sat down beside her, close, like they were in love.

"That dress really does look fantastic on you."

"If only I could wear it on a runway."

"There's nothing to say you won't someday." Neal saw Peter and Lauren at a table nearby in the restaurant. It gave him some comfort at least. "Can I get you a drink?"

She nodded. He ordered two glasses of white wine. They got them and Neal enjoyed the aroma. He had ordered something worthy of someone paying fifty thousand dollars for a dress. Peter would get upset but it was worth it.

A member of the staff walked up to them with a tray.

"Excuse me. Sir, this just arrived for you." He held out the tray and on it was a cell phone. It rang. Neal took it.

"Hello?"

"I recognize you from the party," said a voice on the other side. So he was watched. From where? Neal's eyes darted around the room.

"Who is this?"

"I saw you steal Dmitri's phone."

Observant. Or guessing.

"Yeah," Neal agreed, getting eye-contact with Peter for a second, moving closer to him. "I was trying to eliminate the competition. Guess it worked."

"So you know what you have?"

Neal looked at Tara.

"I know exactly what I got."

"You paid fifty thousand dollars for the dress. I'll give you five million."

Generous. But then the content must be worth more than that, since Ghovat wanted to sell it.

"My fiance loves it so much, how about we make it ten?"

"Do you know who you're talking to?" The voice was not amused or interested in games.

"This is Steve, right?" Neal could not help himself. He knew it was a dangerous game. Too dangerous.

"I tried to be nice," the voice replied. "I tried to give you a choice." Then the phone call was ended.

Neal's body went cold. He knew he had crossed the line. Not with a muscle in his face, he let it all show. He went back to Tara. Whoever had been watching them would not see any of them scared. He smiled at her and drank his wine.


	5. Work on Saturday

**Work on Saturday**

Neal had still not been able to get rid of that cold lump he had in his body. He was used to playing dangerous games but now he had Tara involved. She was an innocent victim and he had no right to use her. For years he had been surrounded by people playing his game. If he asked them to take part in something they knew what they agreed to. Not so with Tara.

An FBI agent just finished searching fingerprints on the phone. It was packed in a sealed evidence bag.

"Nothing on the phone. It's a burner," Peter growled. "You can pick up one of these at any corner deli. Prints?"

"It's clean," the agent concluded and packed his equipment. "No other fingerprints than your consultant's." Lauren sighed.

Neal would have been surprised if they had found anything. They were talking about the Ghost, a criminal who had been active longer than he, but spread his crimes all over the world. They were also fewer but larger than anything Neal had ever done. FBI's list of Neal's crimes – alleged – during the three years they had chased him was hard to beat when it came to amount and skill, but not when it came to value in money.

Jones hurried into the room.

"Agent Burke?"

"What's up?" Peter asked.

"We had two plain clothes taking Tara home. Somebody got to them about a half hour ago."

Neal felt that cold lump spread into his body again. Peter banged down the file he was holding onto the table in frustration.

"Got to them how?"

"Blasted the car to hell. Fortunately, our guys were wearing vests." Agents had this as a job. It was a good thing they made it but Ghovat had not had them as his target.

"What about Tara?" Neal wanted to know.

"They grabbed her. Got away clean." So she made it at least. But now she was in the hands of a murderer.

Something buzzed.

They all halted and located where it came from. The phone on the table. The one from Ghovat. Neal exchanged a look with Peter who nodded. Neal grabbed the bag and pulled. At first, it felt like the plastic would not budge but then he tore a hole in it, yanking the phone out.

He answered the call but there was no need to say anything. Ghovat was no man of pleasantries.

"I have your girl. What's the dress worth to you now?"

Neal felt his heart thump inside his body. He met the eyes of Peter. He must have understood the message because he gestured for Jones and Lauren and they hurried out.

He heard the man in the other end of the phone breathe. Neal put the phone down on the table.

"So now what?"

The two agents returned with a laptop and a microphone.

"You want the girl, I want the dress," Ghovat's voice hissed in the room through the phone.

"Trade?" He exchanged a look with Peter, searching for advice. "Where and when?"

"I'm not interested in meeting with you."

"Then who?"

"Agent Peter Burke," Ghovat replied, putting emphasis on every single word. What? Neal had been there under a fake name.

"Why him?"

"Because it's really the FBI that holds the dress. And your real name is Neal Caffrey, is it not? Do you think I'm stupid? I saw you at the party, remember? And Neal Caffrey works for the FBI now. So stop wasting my time. Is he there now?"

Neal exchanged a desperate look with Peter.

"It's for you."

"This is Burke."

Neal sat down. It was far better to let Peter handle this. He had the experience on his side. Neal had done little more than wasting money and put innocent people at risk.

"I'm sure you heard everything earlier," Ghovat continued.

"You want me to make the exchange," Peter summed it up.

"That's right. I won't waste my time telling you to come alone. Just make sure to bring the real dress."

"If it's not, are you going to make me eat it?"

"That's funny. Keep this phone on you. You'll meet me at the Central Park Bandshell tomorrow afternoon at four PM. Plenty of time for you to get your men into position."

The call was ended.

It was as if the air was sucked out of the room and they all sagged from the sudden tension.

"Alright, let's go home everyone," Peter said. "It's late and we have, as he said, plenty of time until the exchange tomorrow. Nothing more we can do now."

* * *

Peter joined Neal was they left office. The kid always walked unless Peter gave him a ride. This day Peter had walked to work too.

"You okay?" he asked Neal. Peter was pretty sure he was not. Even if Neal had a criminal background he was non-violent and had probably no experience of hostage situations.

"No, not really," Neal replied and Peter almost smiled. The kid had not just shrugged but given a straight and honest answer. Peter also got the feeling Neal showed him that he forgave him for the pat-down blunder. To voluntarily expose a vulnerable side was not something Neal would have done if he had kept the distance he had shown in the car.

"It's natural. Want to talk about it?" Peter offered.

"No thank you, Doctor Freud. I already know why."

"Is it because of Tara?" Peter pried.

"You have to let me go to the exchange," Neal insisted. "It's my fault Tara's in trouble. I'm the one who paraded her around town in the dress."

True, but it was not your call, Peter thought. It was a good thing Neal took responsibility but he could not feel guilty every time something went wrong.

"Neal, we are a team. You didn't decide on your own to bring Tara in it. And Tara agreed to, remember?"

"Yes, but… I…"

"You charmed her to it?" Peter filled in. Neal nodded. He could not blame Neal for feeling guilty about that part. He knew what Neal was capable of. "Best thing you can do is help me figure out what Ghovat's game plan is. He knows we're going to have the place staked out."

"He knows you're running your playbook," Neal agreed.

"Right, so we're going to toss the old one, come up with a new one."

"No, no, you don't," Neal objected. "That's the point. See, he's counting on the FBI to have a plan."

"So I do nothing?"

"Roll with it."

"Like you would." Well, he was not Neal the con-man. He was an FBI agent representing more than himself. He could not waltz into a hostage situation without a plan.

"He expects you to have a plan, don't have one," Neal tried to convince him.

"Well, that's the worse idea ever."

"Prepare all you can, just know it's all going to change," Neal explained. It made sense in a way. But how could you prepare when you knew so few parameters?

"What would you do?" Peter asked. Neal gave him a long, honest look and Peter had time to think that what had started as him supporting Neal had now turned the other way around.

"Go home and have dinner with my wife," Neal assured him. He had probably right. Elisabeth would do miracles with his nerves.

They split and continued each in their own direction.

Neal had once again amazed Peter. He had felt bad about the situation with Tara but he could deal with it on his own and did not seem nervous at all. Peter, on the other hand, felt nervous for tomorrow. No, he was afraid. He had the training and the experience, Neal had not, but he figured it was not what caused Neal to be calm while Peter himself was terrified.

The training made Peter able to do his job in spite of his emotions. Peter had met Neal when he was afraid and he was not that good at handling it. Neal found comfort in preparing, learning and then 'roll with it' as he had called it. Dump him in an unknown territory, like when Peter arrested him for the first time, and you might just as well pull the rug under his feet, just as it was for most people. So Neal made sure to always be as prepared as possible.

It had been relaxing to mull over Neal instead of the case at hand. Ghovat did not cross his mind until he stepped over his doorstep. He was late for dinner of course. El did not say a word about it, just kissed him and hugged him.

Once he had had some leftovers in the kitchen they sat down on the sofa with a glass of wine and Peter told her everything.

"You meet this guy in Central Park, and you give him the dress and he gives you the gi,l." El concluded.

"That's about the size of it."

"I'm really glad you got into the White Collar Crime Division where nothing exciting happens."

"It's pretty dull stuff." They chuckled together. How he loved this woman.

"Yeah," El agreed. "Um, I got you another present."

Peter felt he got pale.

"Honey, not another one. I-I-I'm enjoying my first one, don't-"

Elisabeth brings out the same maroon box his new watch had come in. She opened it and Peter stared.

"It's my old watch," he exclaimed delightedly. Too delighted he realized. "But I-I-I love my new one."

"Come on, Honey, it's big, it's bulky, it moves around your wrist and… I mean it's beautiful, but it's not you." His beloved wife smiled at him. She had seen what he had felt. "Take this. I need you to be Agent Peter Burke tomorrow. And this… this is you." Peter mused at the feeling of his real watch on his wrist.

"Besides…" El continued. "When all this is over with, I need you home at six o'clock right on the dot."

"Thank you."

* * *

It was Saturday but the conference room was crowded and dead silent as Hughes briefed the team.

"Now, Ghovat wants the dress because it's been tagged with a security device," he went on. "We cracked the thread this morning. It's holding the holographic code of the latest European currency seal. We're using a counterfeit code. We're hoping he won't be able to tell the difference, but if he does, this could go south fast."

Peter did not like it.

"We're putting this girl's life at risk." A girl that would be his responsibility as he was doing the exchanged.

"We could put the entire monetary system of Europe at risk. Guess who wins," Hughes replied and exchanged a look with Peter. His boss did not like it either, but it was not his call. "I'll be running point, we'll have eyes in the air, plain clothes on the ground. Cruz, Jones, you're with me. Burke, you know what you gotta do."

Neal put his hand up.

"Caffrey, put your hand down," Hughes barked. "Put it down!"

"I'm just wondering where I'll be," Neal asked.

"On a coffee run. You're not even supposed to be here!" Peter sighed and throw on eye on Neal. The kid did at least not object. "Any questions? Then let's get into position."

Peter lingered as Neal remained by the table.

"Are you okay with this?" he wanted to know. Neal beamed at him.

"Don't worry about me, Peter."

Did he hide that he was hurt, or did he plan to disobey Hughes? Peter could not tell, but he was certain Neal would not do anything risking Tara's life.

"Good." He pattered Neal on the shoulder and left. He needed to get to the meeting spot and stay focused.

* * *

Neal strolled up to the municipal van and knocked on the door at the back.

"Can I come in?"

The door opened and Hughes stared at him.

"Get in here!" Neal was happy to oblige that order "Close the door."

For a second Neal wondered if there was any room for him in there. Desks with computers along each wall, four people already inside. Jones grinned but was soon focused at his work again. Neal maneuvered himself through the van to a free corner at the other end.

He saw Peter and Lauren on a screen filmed by a hidden camera. Peter was carrying the dress in a clothes-cover. Lauren was dressed as a jogger and was stretching.

It did not take many minutes for Neal to feel uncomfortably close to panicking. A solitary cell was never packed with people but the van felt as such never the less. Both were small boxes with no windows. The others had no time to bother about his sudden, and probably unwelcome, appearance. He could leave and they would not care less. But Neal was determined to do what he could to help Tara.

They heard Peter's phone ring.

"You're right on time," Peter answered. They could not hear what Ghovat was saying though.

"Well, that's one thing we have in common." Peter's eyes wandered over the park "I don't see you."

Then they heard Cruz voice:

"He's signaling us. Five five five, three one four seven."

"He's giving us Ghovat's incoming phone number," Hughes told them. "Get me a trace."

"Yep, I'm on it," Jones replied at once.

"Good, Peter," Neal said to himself.

* * *

"How do I know you have the girl?" Peter asked Ghovat. "I wanna hear her voice."

There was a pause and then Tara's voice was heard.

"Agent Burke?"

"Tara, are you okay?" But he got no reply. Then Ghovat returned.

"Bethesda Fountain. That's three hundred yards. You've got one minute. If I see any of your agents or unmarked vehicles move, the girl's dead. Your time starts… now."

Peter found his bearings and ran. He waved for the agents and yelled at them to stay, to hold their positions. He flew down the stairs and ran through the decorated passage under the terrace and reached the fountain. He scanned the area. Where was Ghovat? Peter was unprotected and tired, and easy target.

Ghovat rose from a bench with Tara.

"Go get the dress," he ordered her and she hurried across the area between her kidnapper and Peter. "If you'll notice, Agent Burke, I've added a little fashion accessory of my own to our model friend here. The belt is lined with plastique. I dial a number here, and she goes boom." Peter felt Tara's grip around his arm tightened.

"Give her the dress," Ghovat ordered and Peter obeyed. "Toss it." Tara threw the dress across to Ghovat. "Please don't try anything. I have five bars and free long distance. I can be far away and still cause you pain." He turned and walked away.

"Let him walk. Even if he's bluffing, we can't take the chance," he heard Hughes voice in his ear.

* * *

Neal's mind raced. How to stop Ghovat without risking Tara's life? Five bars… Phone! He took out his phone and dialed the number Peter had given them. It rang and someone took the call.

"Yes?" Ghovat's voice.

"Hey, is this Steve?" Four pairs of eyes in the van turned towards him staring. "What's up, buddy? You never call."

Ghovat hung up.

"All right, keep calling," he told the others in the van. Neal dived for the door. "Jam his phone, so he can't trigger the bomb. Keep calling him."

"Cruz. Stay with Caffrey," he heard Hughes say in his mic. "Everybody else, keep dialing. Jam the phone. Jam the phone. Keep calling him."

Neal ran to the fountain where Peter and Tara stood.

"Hey. We're jamming his call. Get the belt off of her." He continued past them. "Do it. Do it."

He saw the back of Ghovat with the package over his arm.

"Hey, Steve!" he called out. Ghovat turned and pulled a gun at him.

"Now what?" Ghovat asked, knowing Neal had nothing more to offer. Neal knew the man was capable of shooting. Guns were capable of to much death and damage with too little effort. He wanted to say something witty but terror took the best of him.

Then Lauren rammed Ghovat from behind with full force and wrestled him to the ground, cuffing him quicker than Neal thought was possible. Neal stared at her. He had never seen her as a person capable of handling an armed man all by herself.

"That was pretty damn charming," he beamed at her.

Then he heard Peter yell for people to get down. Neal winked to Lauren and jogged down to his handler and deliver the good news. He found him laying on the ground, protecting Tara. The belt lay on the ground at least twenty feet away. People in the park kept their distance, but could not keep from staying and see what would happen.

"Wow!" Neal grinned. "You're actually doing the hero thing."

Neal offered Peter a hand and he rose from the ground and helped Tara to her feet.

"Yeah," he agreed. "They're gonna write songs about this."

"Nice."

"You okay?" Peter asked Tara who nodded.

"Area's contained. Bomb squad's on the way," an agent called out.

"I swept the leg. He went down," Neal boasted to Tara.

"He did? Excellent," Peter mused and looked him up and down. "You don't look dirty." Neal grinned. He had no intention to fool Peter in the first place. His handler was well aware of Neal's inability to fight.

"Yeah, well, I know what I'm doing." He gave Tara a hug.

Later Hughes joined them. He gave Neal a stern look and he expected a reprimand.

"Good work, Caffrey."


	6. A new week

**A new week**

It was Monday morning and his boss gave him a long stare. Peter did not blame him.

"That work is below your pay grade, Burke," Hughes pointed out.

"I know, but I need to see if Neal can handle it," Peter explained. "A long boring day in the van when nothing happens. I need to know if I can count on him in a small, closed, sweaty van. And I need to find out before we really need him in one."

"He came to the van last Saturday."

Peter nodded in agreement, but neither of those inside had paid any attention to Neal and his reactions. And chose to be somewhere and be forced to was two different things.

"I need to see for myself, Reece."

The senior agent nodded.

"Go ahead, Peter."

"Thanks."

Peter left the room and walked down to Neal's desk.

"Time to go," he told the kid. Neal was quick to listen and got his suit jacket and hat on in seconds.

"Where are we going?" he asked in the elevator.

"We're going to relieve Jones and Andersen in the van." Peter sent Neal a glance. "You're going to spend your first shift in one of FBIs most hated places."

"Charming idea," Neal grunted. "Why did I just volunteered to this?"

"Because we both need to know if you can handle it. Surveying Barelli is a good start."

"Barelli?"

"A classic gangster we're keeping our eyes on. Fingers in lots of jars but nothing solid enough to bring him in."

They got down to the garage and into the car.

"How did you feel in the van last Saturday?" Peter asked.

"Unwelcome," Neal replied. "But I didn't expect anyone to cheer."

"Hughes told me it was your idea to jam his phone. You did a good job."

"Thanks."

Peter kept an eye on Neal. He was likely to push the kid way out of his comfort zone. If he could not handle the van it was something they had to work on. But better now with a guy like Barelli who likely knew he had the feds on his tale than when it was vital they did not blow their cover.

Peter parked the car a few blocks away and they walked the rest of the way.

"Alright, the trick is not to catch attention when you enter the van," he told Neal. "People don't expect suits to be inside so the fewer people who see the better." He caught Neal gazing at him with a peculiar smile. "What?" Neal just raised his eyebrows. Peter got the hint.

His consultant had not been the hardest criminals to catch if he had not excelled in discreet moves.

* * *

Jones and Andersen had left and he was alone with Peter in the van. At least it was not crowded as it had been last time. There were two monitors showing different views of a house. There was a speaker but no one was at home so there was nothing to listen to at the moment. Neal was bored and restless within ten minutes. The feeling of being locked up with nothing to do made him claustrophobic.

"Reminds you of your prison cell?" Peter asked. Neal shook his head.

"No. A whole wall had bars to the corridor. It was not like this. I liked my cell." He sent Peter a glance. "Don't get me wrong. I didn't like to be in prison. But my cell was the best place there. I had my books and someone to talk to in the cell next door. Besides, normal days we didn't spend much time in there, so it was no time to get claustrophobic."

"An isolation cell then?" Peter's question hit its mark. Neal gazed at Peter. "I read your prison records, Neal. I know you spent time there."

"Everybody does."

"Not everyone gets four weeks," Peter pointed out. "Neal, the records said you didn't handle it very well."

"Thought I was going insane," Neal mumbled. "Have you tried that too, in the FBI training? Being in an isolation cell?"

Peter shook his head.

"No. I have no idea what it's like. But even if I had, I don't have the energy of a squirrel, always with the need to occupy myself with something. I think our experiences of a week in isolation would be very different." Neal nodded. "It's just the two of us here," Peter pointed out. "Wanna talk about it?"

Neal considered. The weeks in isolation was something he wanted to forget. He had been crying and had banged on the door begging for someone to let him out, or at least someone to talk to before those four weeks were over. It had not been humane. He shook his head.

"No, I don't see the point. Something fascinates me though," Neal continued. "I got those four weeks as punishment for the escape. Like it would keep me from trying again when four more years in prison didn't. I felt more like…" He halted, not sure if he should continue.

"Yes?" Peter prompted him to continue.

"It felt like it was a revenge from the warden and the guards who didn't like me. I know it's not supposed to be."

"I know. I'm thinking it's more of a reminder for the other inmates. But you did use the warden's wife's American Express." Peter chuckled and Neal joined. Then Neal got serious again.

"I couldn't help thinking that if you had taken the deal, you would've used different methods." Neal met Peter's gaze.

"You want to know what punishments I have in mind?" his handler asked. Neal nodded. "You've read the contract. You know what to expect."

Neal got the feeling Peter did not enjoy the subject. Well, Peter was the one who wanted to test his limits and bringing up a sensitive subject as well. So, Neal was not ashamed to test Peter's limits concerning something important to Neal.

"House arrest?" That was the only thing Neal could remember. Peter nodded. "So you either send me back to prison or you place me under house arrest?"

"Something like that," Peter sighed. "Neal, I know I'll probably have to place you in house arrest one time or another. I've no illusions you'll behave that good for four years, but I hope I won't have to consider anything else."

Neal nodded, more as a confirmation of what Peter said than in agreement. They sat in silence a while, watching the screens. Then Peter spoke again.

"As I see things, crimes cannot go unpunished. Society has to show what is okay and what is not. Prison serves both as keeping the criminals away from where they harm abiding citizens, and as a lesson not to do it again." Peter turned his eyes from the screen and met Neal's gaze. "If you hadn't escaped, you would've been a free man now, but I doubt you would've followed the law."

Neal could not think of anything to do but smile and shrug. Peter was right. He had had no plans on getting an ordinary job and sit by a desk all day playing by someone else's rules.

"Then why did you let me out?"

"Because there are other ways to make things work. And you had served the time I put you away for. My point is, I don't think any available punishment can scare you from committing a crime if you decide to do it. That's why I'll keep checking you up. To stop you before you get into trouble."

"Thanks, Peter. Good thinking," Neal beamed. "And I'll do my best to make sure you don't find out."

"I'm sure you will," Peter grinned.

"If I by any chance should decide to commit a crime, that is."

Neal did not have such plans. Except that he wanted out of his anklet without setting off an alarm, so he could search for Kate.

* * *

Back in the office, Peter found a package on his desk. Inside was a CD with the footage from Kate's visit with Neal. Peter considered it as he watched Neal at his desk finishing up for the day. Then he put it in his pocket and asked Neal if he wanted a ride home.

"Thanks, Peter, but I'll think I walk today. The energy of a squirrel, you know." Peter smiled and nodded. It had been a stationary day for both of them.

At home he ate dinner with Elisabeth.

"So, how was your day?"

"Spent it in the van with Neal," Peter replied. She asked him why and he explained that he wanted to make sure Neal could handle to be in a confined space without windows.

"So how did it go?"

"Surprisingly well," Peter admitted.

"But?" El asked. He must have looked troubled.

"Neal asked me about punishments. What I would use." He whirled the glass in his hand.

"Oh."

"I must admit I haven't thought about it much. I've more considered that I must be prepared to cuff him and bring him back to prison than put him in house arrest for some minor misdemeanor." He sighed. "The thing is that house arrest will not teach him anything. All I can do with that tool is to prevent him from committing a crime."

"But that's good."

"Yeah. But then I punish him for something he hasn't done. And it means I have to keep an eye on him at all time. And…"

"Yes?"

"He is an adult. If he wants to commit a crime it is his choice. I can't always be there to stop it." He wanted to. He wanted Neal to stay on the right side of the law, to work with him. Or at least not force him to bring one of the smartest guys he had met back to prison.

"As you said, he's an adult. And you can't do more than your best." Peter nodded. She was right.

He took the CD out of his pocket.

"I need your help with this," he told her. "This is the footage from Kate's last visit to Neal in prison. Neal wants to see it." Elisabeth walked over to their TV and started the DVD-player. Peter put the disk in the tray and they started watching.

Kate appeared serious and stern, Neal turned more and more desperate.

"I would've escaped, too, if you left me like that," Elisabeth commented. "It seems so cruel of her."

Peter agreed. There was something desperate over her, too. Why else leave the man she had been together with for at least six years like that? Peter was not sure when Neal and Kate became a pair, but he was quite certain they had been a couple for two years when he arrested Neal. Then she visited him in prison for almost four years. If she had left him within a year, Peter would not have been surprised, but three years and eight months and then dump him? What was she thinking? Why did she do it?

They watched the tape again. Was there anything in there but a cold-hearted woman and a devastated Neal?

"Do you think he should see this?" he asked El. She nodded.

"When he is prepared for it, maybe he sees how cruel she was, too. Or at least he'll get the closure he said he was looking for."

* * *

Someone was knocking on the door and Neal went to open it. It was Tuesday morning and he was getting ready to leave for the office. Peter was waiting outside.

"Good morning, Peter. Come in." He swung the door open and let his handler in. "Here to offer me a ride?"

Peter shook his head.

"No, you shall take the morning off. We have a situation at the office that I think you'd better pass."

"Situation?"

"Yeah, Barelli contacted the FBI this morning, asked for our help."

"Contacted how?"

"He sent his nephew to knock on the van," Peter grinned and Neal chuckled. "Talked to Jones. Barelli will be in the office soon and I would feel better if you were not there at the same time."

"I've had no business with Barelli," Neal objected. This sounded exciting. He did not want to miss it.

"I know, but Barelli is a true gangster and until we know what he wants, I don't want you involved." Peter's voice told Neal it was nothing to argue about and he sighed, defeated. "But, I have something for you, that I hope will compensate for the loss of a gangster meeting."

Neal eyed Peter and saw he was holding a CD. He frowned. Peter handed it over and he read his name written in pen on the front. It also said it came from Sing Sing prison.

"Kate?" he asked. Peter nodded. "Thanks, Peter!" He wanted to hug the man but held back the impulse. "Thank you."

"I'll call you when I want you to come to the office, alright?"

"Okay," Neal nodded in agreement, suddenly eager to stay at home. Peter smiled and left.

Neal grabbed the phone and called Mozzie and told him to come. Before his friend got there, he had already watched it twice on the laptop Mozzie had arranged for him the week before.

He started it a third time when Mozzie had sat down.

"It was nice of your FBI friend to give you this," Mozzie told him with a certain awe. Neal hushed him. "There's no sound. Why are you shushing me?" Neal was too focused on the film to bother to discuss it.

"Okay," Mozzie concentrated on the task at hand. "Does she always wear her hair parted that way?"

"Yeah. I'm way past that," Neal told him. "Wait. Her scarf is forming the letter M."

"Thirteenth letter in the alphabet," Mozzie informed him in an instant. "Thirteen is a prime."

"Thanks, Rain Man," Neal said and knew Moz was not comfortable with that comparison.

"Do you want my help, or-?" Neal interrupted him and pointed.

"There it is!" Kate had risen from the chair. Her right hand. The fingers. Neal zoomed in. "How's your Morse code?"

"B-O double T, L-E," Mozzie decoded.

"Bottle." There was only one bottle Neal could think of.

* * *

Hughes was sitting behind his desk with Peter standing beside him. On the other side sat Barelli, a man in Peter's own age, who had spent all his life on the wrong side of the law, done prison time too, but used the time to settle the foundation of his little empire. This was a man who had every reason to stay away from the FBI but smart enough to know they had nothing on him to keep him there against his will. Barelli represented everything Peter spent his life fighting. The mere fact that they could not bring charges at him made Peter repulsed.

"Last week… somebody walks into _my_ church steals… the _Bible_ ," Barelli began.

"A Bible?" Peter asked, surprised that the man knew what a Bible was and would note if one was missing. "An actual Bible?"

"Yeah. You know, the flood, Abraham sacrifices Isaac. You heard of it?" Barelli sneered.

"Why do you want our help?" Hughes asked.

"I'm a taxpaying citizen."

"So?" Peter returned. "File a police report."

Barelli grinned at him.

"Come on, Burke. You got your guys sitting on me. It's part of the game, I know, but it means that I'm not free to…" He paused and brushed some invisible dust of his pants. "…find out who did this."

"Yeah, it means you're not free to bust heads until you do," Peter replied. Thank God we were sitting on him, he thought.

Barelli turned to Hughes.

"Do I have to take these accusations?" he asked and gestured towards Peter.

"Get to your point," Hughes commanded.

"This Bible it's not just some book that the Gideons leave on the nightstand," Barelli told them and for once looked serious. "This is five centuries of history from Naples. The _saints_ prayed over this book."

Peter clenched his jaws and turned to watch the view over Manhattan. Two seconds later Hughes stood beside him.

"Your personal feelings for Barelli aside," he hissed, to keep their words private. "I don't need the archdiocese crawling down our necks because we refused to help recover a medieval Bible."

Peter nodded.

"Fine," he mumbled back. "But if Barelli asked for our help, he must really want it back." He turned back to the room and rounded the desk, near towering over Barelli.

"Let's get this straight here. You may go to confession once a week but the Bureau doesn't forgive sins," Peter stated. "We don't work for you."

Barelli got the point.

"What do you want?"

"Shut down your bookmaking operations at Masso's Club." As far as the Bureau knew, this was this gangster's major income. It would sting.

Barelli gave it ten seconds, gazing back into Peter's stern eyes. Then he smiled.

"Masso's. It's a restaurant." He rose. "See for yourself anytime. After Thursday," he added with a grin. Peter nodded to this. Barelli walked to the office door. He put his palms together. "Please. Please help me find my goddamn Bible."

* * *

The wine bottle Kate left in her apartment stood on the table between them. Neal stared at the label. Mozzie was drumming his fingers at the table's surface. Neal fought to focus on the bottle and not the rhythm. It did not go well. And Mozzie did not got the message with Neal's angry looks either.

"Please stop!" he burst, breaking the silence between them. Mozzie's hand became still on the table.

"It's part of my process," he complained. Neal did not care. He took the bottle in his hands. "Look, either you taught her too well or it's just a bottle," Mozzie told him and to Neal, it sounded as if he believed in the latter.

"It's more than that. This is the only thing Kate left me. There's a message here," Neal insisted. It had to be. Mozzie looked skeptical. Neal's phone rang. He put the bottle down and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"It's me," Peter replied. "I'm waiting outside. Ready?"

"Yeah, Peter. I'll be down in five."

"I'd rather see you'd be faster."

"Oh, okay. I'm coming right now."

Mozzie sighed across the table.

"Oh, the man interferes yet again," he pointed out. Mozzie would not likely ever understand why Neal's heart began to beat faster of excitement every time he was about to work with Peter.

"Can you please-?" Neal gestured towards the bottle.

"Yes. I'll take it back to the lab, run some tests," Moz agreed. Neal smiled at his friend.

"You don't have a lab. You have a storage unit."

"Semantics."

Neal rose.

"Thanks, Moz."

Neal put his hat and jacket on and left. Mozzie stayed and finished his coffee.


	7. Steve

**Steve**

Barelli met them outside the church together with a priest who Barrelli introduced as Father D'Allesio. Peter introduced Neal as a consultant and to Peter's relief, no further questions were asked about it. Father D'Allesio showed them into the church where Cruz and Jones were already at work.

"The Bible belonged to the Church of St. Camillus de Lellis in Naples" Father D'Allesio told them as they walked down the aisle to the display case where the Bible had been. "It was brought here in 1903. Been the heart of our parish. Now, this." An empty case with smashed glass.

"No alarm, no witnesses. No sign of a forced entry," Cruz told them. "It looks like a smash and dash."

Simple, risky and uncomplicated.

"Anything unusual that night, Father?" Peter asked the priest.

"No. Not that I recall."

Peter turned to Cruz and Jones.

"Have ERT run the prints against the parish roster. Something tells me we'll get a few matches." The whole community had probably done time in prison.

"Nobody from this parish stole that Bible," Barelli pointed out with certainty.

"Oh, sure. You guys are all choirboys, right, Barelli?"

"No surveillance cameras," Neal pointed out. The kid had as usual been by his side the whole time, watching, scanning, noticing things.

"The Lord sees all," Barelli answered, pointing a finger to the sky. "And that's good enough for us."

"I'm getting my St. Whatevers mixed up. But didn't you used to run a soup kitchen here?" Peter remembered. Father D'Allesio glanced at Barelli before he answered.

"Not anymore."

Barelli made a face and looked in the other direction without comments. Peter exchanged a look with Neal. The kid had not missed the tension either.

* * *

"Who steals a Bible?" Neal asked Mozzie. They had been on the rooftop terrace and Mozzie had not come further with the bottle. Now Neal was returning inside with their empty whiskey glasses.

"People steal everything," Moz returned.

"Why would we steal one?" Neal asked and his friend stared at him. "In theory."

Mozzie shrugged.

"They're rare."

"Yeah, it makes them valuable, but not like a Picasso." He crossed the room and poured some more whiskey in their glasses. "It's definitely a niche market. It's tough to fence. People get weird about buying stolen religious artifacts."

"I think it's an irony thing. That pesky eighth commandment." Neal handed a glass to Moz and took a sip from his own.

"Thou shalt not steal."

"It depends what's important to people. Did you know that an original Star Trek dome lunchbox goes for 600 bucks?" No, he did not. And it was not like he was going to steal those. "I don't try to explain it."

"Well, I can appreciate that," Neal answered. The world was weird enough as it was. "But why this one?"

"Well, you're missing book is famous. It's known as the Healing Bible." Mozzie held a couple of sheets with printouts.

"Really? Attribution." That could explain a lot.

"'In 1588, the plague passed through Naples. Father Camillus carried the book into disease-stricken ships in the harbor. Not a single person who touched the Bible died,'" Mozzie read.

"Good story," Neal nodded, taking another sip.

"Twenty years later a blind girl regained her sight when she rescued the book from a fire. I could give you many more examples."

"No, I'm sure you could." An idea formed itself in Neal's head. "Look, maybe you don't steal it for the money. You steal it because you're a true believer."

The next morning Neal did some more research and then approached Peter.

"I think the one who stole the Bible is a true believer," he told him.

"A true believer?" Peter sounded skeptical. Like you did not become a crook if you believed in God.

"You got something better?"

"Every person in that church has a felony record," Peter sighed. "The people I don't suspect are the ones in prison."

"So let's start with the faithful," Neal suggested.

Peter read from what he had in his file.

"'It cures blind nuns and lepers.' It sounds like every story in Sunday school."

"Look at this." Neal took his research from his desk and showed it to Peter. "In 1918, 30,000 people in New York died from the Spanish flu. No one in this parish even caught a cold."

"Maybe whoever took it thinks it's gonna heal them," Peter concluded. He had bought the idea.

"It's worth looking into."

* * *

Neal was back in the church with Peter.

"Nobody in this church caught the flu?" Peter asked with disbelief.

"It's true," Neal confirmed. The source was as reliable as it could be considering no one any longer lived to tell the tale.

"Why these guys and not the church down the block? Because of a book?" Peter was not convinced. "Tough to swallow."

"I thought you were Catholic."

"Lapsed."

"Oh, so you don't think some higher power could've saved the congregation?" Neal could not say he had an opinion about miracles but he loved to discuss different angles of a problem. And since this was a problem he did not have to solve, just believe that others could believe it, he gladly took the opposite opinion of Peter. Especially when he picked up an attitude from Peter that criminals could not be faithful to God.

"I'm more inclined to think they kept the door shut and loaded up on vitamin C," Peter explained the event.

"Maybe God works with what he's got?"

"And God said, 'Shut thine doors and eat thine oranges?'"

"Why not?"

"All right, look, when they dug up King Tut everybody made such a big deal out of the curse of the pharaoh," Peter began.

"People who entered the tomb ended up dead," Neal added. Not all of them, but enough to cause a rumor. Rumors could be useful things.

"Yeah, they probably caught some old bacterial infection," Peter stated. "Germs. There's your divine intervention."

"God can't use bacteria?"

"I prefer my miracles with a little more smiting and lightning." The classical attitude, Neal thought. Without imagination. A boring side of Peter he did not admire. Be as it may with God, this was a question about the attitude towards what you could not understand. It was so boring to explain everything. Neal preferred just to let things be as they were and see the good in things.

"Can I help you?" Father D'Allesio walked up to them.

"Thanks for seeing us again, Father," Peter greeted the priest. "We wanted to run down one thing. You didn't tell us your Bible was also known as a healing Bible."

Father D'Allesio shrugged.

"I didn't think it was relevant," he replied. So he knew but did not consider it relevant. He likely did not believe in the Bible's attributed powers, Neal figured.

"Could be. Anybody in your church who was a true believer of the healing power of the Bible?"

"Someone who was terminally ill?" Neal added. "Someone who had a sick family member?"

The priest sighed.

"I was afraid this might happen."

"What?" the agent prompted.

"Mr. Barelli has discouraged the homeless from the church."

"He made you shut down the soup kitchen?" Peter asked and Father D'Allesio nodded. "How Christian of him."

"The night of the theft, I let a homeless man sleep in the sanctuary."

"You know him?" Peter asked and the priest nodded but seemed unwilling to tell anything more. "Father? I'm here to get the Bible back." He did not promise to keep someone out of prison, but Neal was sure Peter hoped it would not come to that.

"His name's Steve. Please," the priest begged, "be gentle with him."

"Is he sick?"

"No." Father D'Allesio shook his head. "But someone very close to him is."

"What does he look like, and where can I find him?"

* * *

They found a man matching the description from Father D'Allesio in the park not far from the church. A black man in a military cap, probably not past forty. He sat on a bench with his dog.

Peter put on his gentle face and approached.

"Steve?" The man looked up. "Hi. My name is Peter. This is my friend Neal." Peter knew he should introduce himself as an FBI-agent, that this was against protocol, but he had no intention to hide his identity. Just make things less complicated.

"Hi," Neal gave a little wave.

"Do you mind if we ask you some questions?" Steve did not reply. He looked away. Not in a way as if they were not there or as he had not heard. Just as… he lost focus.

"The church you stayed in last week, they're missing a Bible," Peter tried. "You know anything about it?"

Steve's eyes returned to Peter's. Or rather to his shoulder or chin. It felt like they did not make real eye contact.

"Yeah. I took it."

Peter was speechless for a second and then turned to Neal who could not hide a smile at the honest confession.

"Great," he exclaimed with an easy tone. "We need it back."

"No," Steve objected. "No, I need it back."

"What do you mean?" Neal frowned. "Where is it?"

"I took it from the church like he asked me to. He said that he'd show me how to help Lucy get better. Then he took it from me. Now, he has not brought it back. Do you know where he is?"

"Nooo," Peter sighed. "I wish I did."

"Who asked you to take the Bible from the church?" Neal asked. Worth a try but not likely to get an answer, Peter figured.

"Look, he said that he would help Lucy get better," Steve reminded them. "She's not getting better. She's getting worse."

Neal knelt, patting the dog. Steve's hand had not left the dog the whole time.

"What's wrong with her?" the kid asked.

"She's tired all the time," Steve mumbled as if he was about to cry. "She don't eat nothing. If I get that Bible back, she'll get better."

"The man who asked you to take the Bible," Peter began testing an idea. "Did you meet him at the church?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded.

"Steve, if we showed you some pictures, do you think you could recognize him?" Peter was not sure if Steve nodded to the question, but he did not object either.

"We just need to get the Bible back, okay? Because she's fading."

* * *

Neal and Peter watched Steve and Lauren in the conference room. Lauren had a pile of albums with mugshots.

"I'm glad we followed your hunch," Peter told him. "Hope it takes us somewhere." Neal smiled, pleased by the praise.

"Oh, ye of little faith," he returned with a grin.

"You've been waiting to trot that one out," Peter guessed.

"Been holding onto it since lunch," Neal admitted.

They turned to the coffee peculator and Peter got a mug and poured himself some coffee. Neal had not bothered to try it since last time four years ago, during Peter's interrogation of him.

Lauren left the conference room and came up to them. She looked like a worn rug.

"That bad, huh?" Peter noted.

"Yeah, that bad was about an hour ago." Lauren stared at Peter taking the last coffee. "Just give me the damn thing." She grabbed the coffee pot.

Peter gazed into the conference room and walked inside. Neal followed.

"No luck, huh?" his handler asked, sympathetic.

"No. Not really, no. Look, I'm- I'm sorry I'm not more help to you. My bell got rung pretty good in Fallujah."

"You were in Iraq?"

"Yeah. It's where I found Lucy. We called in this predator strike on this trigger house," Steve told them, eyes wandering afar as he returned to the was. "Two hellfires came in and just destroyed everything. Then I hear this little whimpering. So I lift up this piece of roof. And there she was. Just wagging her tail."

The dog was essential for this man's life, this much was clear, Neal thought. This situation was also one where Peter showed himself as the admirable man Neal knew he was. He had the thief but did not arrest him, knowing there was so much more behind the theft.

"Well, you think you could look at one more book?" Peter asked, gentle. Steve was not stupid, even if he was slow. He knew he needed to pinpoint the one who told him to find the Bible. He nodded.


	8. Paul Ignazio

**Paul Ignazio**

There was a stir down in the office. Hughes gave orders. Neal heard something about N.Y.P.D. but could not make out the context. The number of agents around Hughes spoke its own language though.

Hughes and Jones walked into the conference room. Peter had noticed the disturbance, too.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"One of Barelli's men just got shot," the senior agent replied.

"Who?"

"Paul Ignazio," Jones replied and sent a folder across the table with a mug-shut paper-clipped on the front. "Barelli's number two."

Peter picked up the file.

"Barelli's nephew," he mumbled, stunned.

"That's him," Steve declared. He was watching the photo on the file.

Peter swung his head around and stared at the homeless man.

"Who?"

"The guy that asked me to take the Bible," Steve explained. Neal figured they all stared at the man. Had Barelli's own nephew stolen the Bible? And was now killed? Peter sent him a look. Neal shrugged. It did not make more sense to him than to Peter.

"Guess you'd better get down there to have a look," he suggested to Peter. Neal was not so keen on going himself. He had seen two dead bodies since he started to work for Peter and he was not eager for a third.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Jones, tell Cruz that Steve has found the guy and tell her to do the paperwork and buy Steve lunch before he leaves."

"Let's go," Hughes ordered and left the room with Peter on his tail. Neal lingered. Peter turned in the doorway and pointed for him to come. A pointing not to be ignored. Neal sighed and followed.

* * *

Peter and Hughes showed their badges to the police officer and walked under the tape out on the pier. It was chilly. Peter was glad he had taken his FBI windbreaker for once. He had not thought about it at the office though. Then it was more a courtesy to his boss. Together with Hughes, he was second in command, not first, and Peter hated the awkward situations when he was addressed instead of Hughes, and Peter forgot himself and took command. With his windbreaker with FBI printed with huge letters on its back he visually appeared less in ranking than one in a suit, so Hughes was addressed first, instead of Peter.

He pulled on rubber gloves and kneeled beside the body, pulled the tarpaulin aside, and watched the dead man on his back in soaked clothes.

"That's our boy," Peter confirmed. "Close range."

"No eyewitnesses," Hughes sighed.

"Body's not waterlogged. So it's fresh," Peter noted. He saw a shell lying between to planks. He picked it up on top of a pen. "Twenty-five caliber casing. European gauge." European? What was this?

"It's a twenty-two caliber," a voice said behind him. A voice Peter knew and hoped to never hear again. "This is Brooklyn, buddy. Not Bavaria." He turned and there he was, squatted by the body. Joseph Ruiz. One of the most incompetent and nasty FBI agents he had ever met. "Pete Burke… This is a homicide, not an art exhibit. What are you doing here?" Ruiz knew fully well Peter did not like being called 'Pete'.

"Ruiz, I see they let you out of your cubicle."

"Yeah. This is my show now," the man claimed. Peter got to his feet, sending Hughes a stare. "Where's your pet convict?"

"I left him in the car with the windows cracked." Unfortunately, that was truer than Peter wanted to admit. Neal had asked to stay and Peter knew why. He had seen no reason to push it.

"What are you doing at my crime scene?" Ruiz asked with that unpleasant attitude of someone unwilling to cooperate.

"This tails into my case," Peter pointed out.

"This is mob retaliation. It's my investigation now. If you don't believe me, ask Hughes."

Peter sent Hughes a glare and took a step towards his boss. Hughes guided him away from the body and Ruiz.

"Don't start with me," Hughes told him.

"You've got Ruiz running Organized Crime? That's unbelievable."

"We offered you that bump, you turn it down," Hughes pointed out. Yes, but Ruiz? There were thousands of FBI agents that would do a better job than that man. But it was no use arguing about that. Now he needed to stay focused.

"This isn't mob on mob," Peter explained. "The Bible's the key to this thing."

They walked further out on the pier.

"All you've got is a guy with a spotty memory who thinks Ignazio may have enticed him into stealing that Bible," Hughes argued against him. "What we've got is a member of the Barelli family probably killed by the Morettis."

"All right, fine." Peter knew he would not win this argument. His boss was right. "I'll stay out of the active investigation. Just let me take a look at whatever's on that body."

"It's Ruiz's case. He's not comfortable sharing intel while Caffrey's with you."

"Oh, come on." Ruiz does not want to share because he is Ruiz he wanted to say but kept his mouth shut.

"He's a convicted felon, Peter. And Ruiz isn't the only one with reservations."

"All right."

"You have plenty of other cases on your sheet," Hughes patted him on the shoulder. "Let Organized Crime handle this one."

"All right," Peter sighed. This day was not going to be his favorite ones. Hughes left. Finding the Bible was still one of his cases but he was denied access to a vital piece.

* * *

Neal had not been able to sit tight in the car and wait. He had left a note in the car and taken a walk around the block. When he got back Peter was waiting for him. His handler waved for him to follow him. Neal glanced out on the pier where the coroner's car still parked told him there was still a dead body out there.

"Relax," Peter said. "We're not going out there."

They walked out on one of the other piers. When they got to the end, Neal sat down on the bench, waiting for whatever Peter had to say so far from everyone. The agent leaned with his back against the railing. He seemed tensed and upset, but not with Neal. Someone else must have made him frustrated.

After a few minutes of silent waiting Peter told him about another agent on the scene, a guy named Ruiz, who considered it a 'mob-on-mob' without connection to the Bible. It seemed as if Peter had to fight not to spit curses at the man, which was unlike the Peter he knew.

"We're off the case?" Neal asked. It was the only thing he could think of.

"We've been asked to step down," Peter clarified and sat down beside him.

"Is this a retaliation killing by the other family?" Neal asked. If so it would not fall under White Collar division and explain why they were off the case.

"I don't think Paul would've met a Moretti alone by this river," Peter was thinking aloud. "Not with all the bad blood in the water."

"Now, if Ruiz is right?"

"That Moretti killed him? We may be sitting on the edge of a mob war."

"So, what do we do?"

"I can't do much of anything. Ruiz is not willing to share the case file."

"So where does that leave us?" Neal felt that he missed something.

"Like I said, _I_ can't do much of anything," Peter repeated and gazed at Neal in silence. Neal got the message. He smiled.

"You know, I'm getting a little chilly by this water. Aren't you? Can I borrow your jacket?" Neal asked. Peter's eyes narrowed. "I swear to you, Peter. Under no circumstances will I impersonate the FBI."

Peter gave him the jacket and Neal put it on and rubbed his arms.

"Is it okay for you if I leave for lunch?" Neal asked.

"As long as you don't wear that jacket," Peter replied. Neal rose and took off the jacket but kept it, slung over his shoulder.

"I told you, Peter, I'll not impersonate an FBI agent. See you at the office."

He left the pier, called Mozzie and asked him to meet up a block away from Paul Ignazio's place.

"You're gonna love this," he added.

* * *

It felt like ages waiting in Paul Ignazio's backyard before Mozzie opened the door and let him in.

"Any problems getting in?" he asked while he sneaked inside. He had given Mozzie Peter's jacket and a standard kit with pubes and sponges for getting evidence. As expected an N.Y.P.D officer had been guarding the front door and as expected Mozzie was the one to get passed him.

"None," Moz claimed. "He thinks I'm swabbing toilets. We've got about 10 minutes until he gets curious." Neal wished he had heard him. Mozzie used a completely different technique than him. While Neal relied on his charm and confidence, Moz made people uncomfortable and awkward and made sure they knew they could be blamed for it all. He was the short, anonymous guy no one could describe afterward because they were all so glad to be rid of him.

"Why? Is that the standard toilet swabbing time?"

"Yes. That's exactly what it is."

"You look comfortable in that FBI windbreaker," Neal grinned at his friend. "It's time to consider a new career path."

"No. I prefer to keep my soul. What are we looking for?"

Neal scanned the small, cheap apartment. Seemed like being the nephew of a gangster boss did not come with favors.

"Paul convinced our guy to steal a Bible. I wanna know why. I wanna know who killed him. And I wanna know if they're related."

Mozzie grabbed the pile of mail on the counter. Neal took the two steps to the sofa table. It was cluttered. Someone had been eating fast food. As Neal leaned closer he saw the napkins were covered with text.

"He was researching something," he mumbled. "Hundred Years' War… the Crusades… illuminated manuscripts." A Medieval Bible could fit into that context.

His eyes went to the small but stuffed bookshelf by the bed. He scanned the books. He knew most of the titles and he guessed Mozzie had read what he had not. He opened one he had not heard of. The pages were full of marks and notes, like an eager student.

"Why is a mob guy researching medieval history?" he asked, mostly to himself. He turned to the back cover. An image of the writer. "You know the name Maria Fiametta?" he asked Mozzie who viewed Paul Ignazio's wall calendar.

"Doesn't ring a bell. Who is she?"

"Art historian, Brooklyn State."

"Serendipity. Paul had an appointment at Brooklyn State," Mozzie pointed at a note in the calendar with a grin.

* * *

Peter's phone rang.

"Special Agent Peter Burke."

"It's Neal," the kid replied.

"You find anything?"

"Your hunch was right," Neal confirmed at the other end. "Ruiz is on the wrong trail."

"And how did you learn this?"

"A friend," Neal answered, short, saying there was nothing more to say on the subject.

"The same friend who-?"

"Same guy. He's real. I'm not making him up."

Peter grinned.

"Oh, I know he's real." When Neal's job as a consultant had been permanent the first thing Peter had done was to let Jones tail Neal's secret friend, since Neal had solved the case before Peter had met the guy as promised. Jones had seen him and knew what to look for. All he had been able to tell was that he visited Neal quite often, but every time Jones had followed him he had lost the guy.

"How much do you know?" the kid asked and Peter could tell Neal got worried.

"Enough. What'd you find?"

"A professor who writes about the black market. Sicilian grave robbers, Egyptian smugglers, and Serbian mobsters. Can't run with those crowds unless you're willing to get dirt under your nails."

"What's his name?"

"Her name is Maria Fiametta. A woman."

"A regular Cindiana Jones," Peter grinned at the image he got of a female grave robber. Neal did not seem to share his amusement.

"Do you wanna go meet her?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think I do," Peter replied. "I set it up for tomorrow. Good work, Neal, and thank your friend from me. Take the rest of the day off and take my jacket back to the office tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Peter." He hung up.

Peter smiled. Without a doubt had Neal been with his friend wherever they had found the information. Peter's first guess was Paul Ignazio's apartment because that was where he would go first himself. In that case, Neal was there illegal, but none of them was stupid enough to put themselves in a situation where Peter or any other part of the law-enforcement would know about it.

What if Neal got caught? What if N.Y.P.D caught him during such break-in? Peter would take responsibility for him, take most of the heat away. As long as he was doing something within reason at least. Slap him with a symbolic house arrest to keep everybody else pleased. Peter knew he was moving in a gray zone. It was nothing he wanted to make a habit of. But Ruiz had pissed him off. He also wanted to prove what he could do together with Neal, his 'pet-convict.'

When it came to Neal's friend he figured he would meet him sooner or later. Peter had no intention to pry to get him behind bars. If the man was in Peter's own age as Jones had guessed and had a habit of melting away in a crowd Peter guessed this friend was probably never to be caught. He had probably flown under the radar for most of his life.


	9. Maria Fiametta

**Maria Fiametta**

"You gentlemen are with the FBI?" The voice came from a colorful woman with dark-blond hair who spotted them coming in. Maria Fiametta in the flesh.

"Yes," Peter confirmed and rounded Neal who, not surprisingly stopped to gaze at the charismatic person who just walked into the room. "We're hoping you can help us out on this one. We're working on a stolen Bible." He nodded to Neal. "Show her."

Neal handed over two photos of the Bible that Barelli had given them.

"Thank you, Agent-?"

"Neal. Caffrey."

"That's funny," the professor mused. "There's a very talented manuscript forger also named Neal Caffrey."

"How talented?" Neal asked with a grin and Peter sighed.

Maria Fiametta gazed at the young man in front of her and smiled.

"You're him?"

Peter saw the pride in Neal's eyes when he did not deny she was right. The professor laughed.

"And you're with the FBI?" she asked.

Neal gave Peter a glance.

"It's sort of a work release," he replied, never letting go of his smile. Peter put his hands on his hips waiting for the flirtatious Cindiana Jones to get passed Neal and get to the Bible.

"I have to ask," she continued curious gaze at Caffrey. "Is it true that the Vinland map is yours?"

What? Peter gritted his teeth. That was something he never heard of.

"How could it be?" Neal replied looking completely innocent. "But if it is a forgery, it's spectacular."

Peter glared at Neal but he did not see or cared. He was engulfed in this woman's eyes. Vinland map indeed. Damn kid!

"How about we get back to my current problem?" Peter broke in. "A pre-Renaissance Bible stolen from a church in Brooklyn."

The professor took her eyes from the charmer beside him, nodded, and took the photos to a table nearby. She gave them a quick glance through a magnifier glass.

"It's very beautiful," she commented. "But it's not a Bible."

"It's not?"

"Pre-Renaissance, yes. But it's too small to be a Bible."

"Then it's a book of hours," he concluded. What else could it be if it was called a Bible without being one? Maria Fiametta now sent her impressed flirtatious smile to Peter instead. At once he understood why she got Neal so spellbound.

"Most likely, yes," she agreed, still smiling. "In the Italian style."

He caught Neal's amazed stare and realized he had known something about antique things the well-prepared kid did not.

"A large prayer book," Peter explained. "To show their devotion, monks and nuns had to recite the Psalms hymns, or chants at specific times all day long."

"Sunday school?" Neal asked.

Peter nodded.

"Lots of Sundays."

The professor studied the photos again.

"This is a particularly nice example."

"Well, Ignazio thought so too." He watched Maria for a reaction.

"Sorry?"

"Do you know him?"

"No." Too quick answer? Too slow? It was so easy to get caught in the old cliches and call it a hunch.

"We believe he stole it."

"Oh, well, I hope you catch him."

"Can't. He's dead," Peter told her. She blinked. But who would not? "Looks like a mob hit. But we're still hoping to figure out who took the book."

"Well, I'd love to know. It's quite beautiful." Though she was not looking at the book any longer. Her eyes were at Neal again and he sure did not mind.

"Here's my card." Peter pulled one out of his pocket and gave it to her. "If you hear anything or come across anyone who's looking to buy or sell something."

"I will call you," she confirmed.

"Thank you." He moved towards the door.

"It's a pleasure," Neal beamed on his way out. Her eyes must have made him pause though.

"If you are ever in the mood to discuss medieval manuscripts…" she invited.

"You'd be surprised how often I'm in the mood for that," the charmer replied as natural as life itself.

As if those kinds of lines ever came naturally to men like Peter. Though he was happily married and had no need to flirt, it was not without Peter wished he had had Neal's abilities when he was younger. He, when he finally mustered the courage to face her, he had gone mute and Elisabeth had had to take the first step to a conversation.

* * *

Neal was impressed that Peter had not asked about the map. Maria had been right in there. The Vinland map was his work. One of his best, too. And it could never, ever be connected with him. It was a relief to know he had resisted the temptation to sign it.

"How about lunch?" he asked.

"No. I'm having a lunch meeting with Hughes. But come by our place this afternoon and have some dinner with me and El."

Neal halted.

"Dinner?" Did Peter just invite him to dinner with his wife?

"Yeah. Something wrong?"

"No… I… just wasn't prepared for it," Neal fought to keep his voice steady. Peter had made clear that he did not approve of him coming to his house or mix his wife into their work. Neal was allowed to come to Peter if needed but it was not something he had dared to do since his first blunder when he had come unasked for. Now he was invited to eat dinner with them.

"Have other plans?"

"No, no. Not at all. I love to come," he ensured his handler.

"Good."

"Thank you."

"You go and have lunch and then we meet up at my house, do some work on the case and when El gets home we have dinner."

"Okay. See you, Peter."

Neal watched Peter walk away and he felt lighthearted. It had been a month since he invaded Peter's home and crossed a line his handler had thought had been obvious. He had never been there since. Met Elisabeth when he pulled her into arranging a trap setup by the FBI. Another mistake according to Peter, to do so without asking him first. Peter sure had told the truth when he said he would not send him back to prison on a whim. That they both were allowed to do mistakes within reason.

He took out his phone and called Mozzie and they agreed on a place to meet up and then eat lunch.

"Was this just an exercise in schadenfreude?" was the first thing Moz said when they met. "Because you win. It's just a bottle, man."

It could not be.

"The lab needs to reexamine its work."

"The lab went over every inch of that thing. Fingerprints, chemicals, black light, nothing. I even tested the remnants of the wine left in the bottle which, by the way, was a very lovely boxed Franzia from early October."

Franzia. Boxed table wine. American. Too common to be a clue. Neal's phone buzzed. Mozzie saw the display when he picked it up and read the text message.

"Oh, your FBI friend keeps you on a tight leash," he commented, arms crossed. Rightly so, Neal figured, since their lunch plans just changed. Peter had texted him that his meeting was canceled and he had takeouts back at his place.

"Keep looking, Moz. Something's there, okay?"

Both lunch and dinner at the Burke's. Could not really complain about that, though he felt bad for Mozzie. Mostly because he so gladly followed Peter instead of his former mentor.

Did Mozzie think of Peter as a rival? Well, even so, Neal admitted that he saw a future with Peter that he no longer saw with Moz. Moz was his friend and would so remain, but he would always be a criminal and saw no problem with that. Though Neal had wanted to get out to find Kate and to catch the Dutchman before the man broke Neal's record, he had now to face that he was no longer so sure that he wanted a criminal future. There were other ways to use his intellect that was just as fulfilling. After all, he had no agenda with his crimes. He just liked challenges, to occupy his mind. It had cost him four years behind bars. And yet another four years hovering behind his every step.

Neal knocked on the door to the Burke's house and Peter opened.

"Hi, come in" his handler waved for him to enter.

Neal walked in but remained by the door while Peter continued into the living-room.

"I bought us some pizza."

Neal smiled.

"Of course you did."

Peter turned and grinned towards him.

"Do you mind?"

Neal shook his head.

"No. Being interrogated by you was fun." Neal dared to venture into the room.

"Grab a seat. 'Fun' you said?" Peter asked as he opened the pizza box.

"We did laugh a lot." Neal sat down and so did Peter.

"Yeah, we did." Peter chuckled. "I never understood what you did to make that interrogation a pleasant occasion."

"Me?" Did his handler just say that it was Neal who made the eight-hour interrogation fun?

"Yeah, you."

"I thought it was you."

They laughed.

"Were you never afraid to slip-up?" his former case agent asked.

Peter offered him to take a slice and Neal grabbed one. He considered. He had been afraid, but not for being with Peter.

"No."

"Honestly?"

"Yeah, Peter, that's the truth. I was afraid of a lot of things that night, but not for you. And not for admitting to an alleged crime." Neal sent Peter a stern look. This was as close as he would go on the subject.

Peter grinned.

"Right."

When Peter finished his first slice he rose and fetched himself a beer from the fridge.

"Want one?" Neal was not fond of beer, but he was thirsty. "Or do you prefer a cola?"

"I go for the cola."

Peter placed a big gulp mega cup in front of him, probably bought with the pizza.

"I figured you hadn't grown up yet, kiddo," he grinned.

"I can't remember you ever gave me much of a choice what to drink with my pizza when you questioned me." Neal was not a huge friend of soft-drinks either, but they were better than beer.

He took another slice of pizza and sipped from the huge cup.

"Did you ever consider to remove any charges?" he asked Peter, who frowned.

"No. Why would I?"

Neal shrugged.

"First-time offender, non-violent, harmless…"

"That's not how it works, Neal."

"I know, but that doesn't stop you from considering options, does it?"

Peter watched him across the table.

"Let's just say I thought the four years you got was sufficient."

That was good to hear.

Peter took a sip from his beer and shewed on his pizza.

"My job is to solve crimes, catch those who commit them. It's not my job to decide the consequences. If I start doing things in those lines then I corrupt the system, no matter who honorable reasons I have."

"But you'll let Steve go, even if he confessed he stole the Bible?" It was not that Neal minded keeping Steve out of prison. It was as food for thought since it contradicted what Peter had just said.

"Being tricked into doing crimes, and committing them deliberately are two different things."

Neal was not about to argue about that.

Satchmo came with a leach in his mouth.

"You think it's time for a walk, eh?" Peter asked the dog and ruffled his fur. "Finished?" he asked Neal who nodded.

They had not come far until Neal heard his anklet beep. He pulled up the leg of his pants and saw it blinked yellow.

"Oh, sorry," Peter said at once. "I forgot to check you in." He took out his phone, did something and the beeping stopped.

"'Check me in'?" Neal asked.

"I send a text to the marshals that you're working every morning when I see you, and one when you leave," Peter explained. "Before lunch, we went separate ways and then I checked you out."

They continued their walk. He knew he was a prisoner with an anklet. It was supposed to be a limitation and something to be checked. Yet, Neal could not help feeling depressed that Peter could not leave him without alarm for even a lunch. It was still monitored. Peter could always see where he was.

"What would it take for you to trust me?" Neal asked.

"You've been out for a month," Peter remarked. "One out of forty-eight. It's two percent of your time. And you expect me to trust you?"

"Have I done anything wrong during that month?"

"Not that I _know_ of."

Neal ignored the huge hint that Peter figured Neal was doing something behind his back.

"That's something, isn't it?"

How could he explain that he enjoyed this new life, his days with Peter, in a way that Peter would believe him? Trust him.

"It's a good start," Peter admitted. "But that does not mean I'll stop checking where you've been and what you're doing. Learn to live with it. It could've been worse."

It could. But it was hard to have a friend you trusted who did not trust you in return.

"Can you at least trust me when I say I would never do anything to harm you or Elisabeth?"

"I would trust you with my life, Neal," Peter replied. "I just don't trust you with valuables, and that, my friend, is what counts in this exercise."

Neal sighed. It did not make sense. How could Peter trust him to save his life but not trust him with his wallet? In the world Neal knew, it worked the other way around.

"So, what would it take for you to trust me with valuables?" Neal persisted.

"Time. Now let's buy some coffee and head back home and do some work."

* * *

"She's lying about Paul," Peter said looking at Neal across the table. "She's two degrees away from our homeless guy. I also have trouble buying the fact that an attractive history professor offed a mobster."

Before Neal had time to reply to this, the front door opened and Elisabeth marched in, telephone to her ear.

"No! You don't want me to see the missing inventory!" she stated to whoever was unfortunate to be on the other end. "If I come down there, there'll be a lot more missing than centerpieces. You got that?"

"Okay, maybe it's not a complete stretch," he added to Neal who did not disagree. Peter figured they should have cleaned away the rest of their lunch from the table. Too late now.

"Hey, guys," El grinned at them as hung up.

"Hi," Neal replied as he looked like he tried to have a conversation with a dragon.

"Sorry. It's just my vendor."

"No, it's fine," Peter assured her with a smile. "We were just trying to decide if a woman is capable of murder."

"Oh, I think so," his lovely wife nodded with certainty. She grabbed the back of a chair as if she was ready to wring someone's neck. "What's the issue?" Peter exchanged a look with Neal and gestured for him to explain.

"All right…" Neal collected his thoughts. "I think we're dealing with a shell game." He rose and grabbed for the extra large paper cup he bought to Neal.

"Visual aids," Peter nodded in appreciation. "Nice."

Neal took a napkin and dried the inside of the cup.

"Big Gulp is Paul, dead mob guy." He turned it upside down on the table. "Coffee cup is Steve, our homeless vet." He dried one of the paper cups from the coffee. Then he took Peter's FBI mug. "Mug is Maria. Napkin's the Bible." He placed the crumbled napkin he had used for the mugs as number four in the row of mugs.

"Make Maria the salt shaker," Peter objected. He did not want the villain camouflaged into something with an FBI logo.

"Maria's the mug. Watch." Neal grabbed the big bulk. "We'll start with Paul, who for some reason reads Maria's book and realizes the Healing Bible is worth a hell of a lot of cash." Neal placed 'Paul' on the napkin. "But it's also Barelli's pride and joy. He doesn't wanna risk Barelli's wrath. He gets Steve to— "

"—steal the Bible," Peter followed along. Plausible deniability."

"But if it doesn't work," El joined, "then he lets the homeless guy take the fall. Well, that's evil."

Neal nodded.

"He takes the Bible from Steve," the kid continued and moved the cups and mugs around. "Calls Maria to make the deal. Something happens."

"Yeah. The deal goes down wrong." Peter rose and leaned against the backrest of his chair. "Or Paul decides he wants both the cash and the book."

"Well, whatever it is, Paul ends up dead," Neal concluded and flipped the big gulp over. "The Bible goes missing," he continued and flipped the coffee cup aka Steve over. "Steve never even met Maria." Neal sat down.

"And our girl walks away clean with a very expensive book," Peter finished the story and lifted his FBI mug. But there was no napkin. There was a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Not only had he moved the napkin from the big bulk to the mug, but he had also switched it all together. Wow. Peter grinned all over his face.

"Okay, how'd you do that?"

Neal just smiled.

"Never reveal your secrets," El advised Neal and sat down by the table.

"How do we get Maria to reveal hers?" Neal asked.

Peter sighed.

"If I stretch it, I might be able to get a warrant to get into her place."

"You know," his wife looked at Neal's flipped over mugs and crumbled note on the table, "if she's smart, she's not gonna have that Bible anywhere close to her."

"El, I've never seen this devious side." It was hot though, Peter had to admit.

She winked at him.

"Don't cross me."

"Elizabeth's right about the Bible," Neal confirmed. "She won't keep it close."

Peter considered and suddenly remembered something from their meeting with Maria Fiametta.

"I've got it. She knew who you were. Neal Caffrey, master forger."

"Alleged," Neal pointed out.

"Alleged, whatever. If she's got the book, it links her to the murder. She's gonna wanna get rid of it. We've got the usual channels locked down. But if she thinks you might be interested."

"Convince her I'm pliable," Neal followed his line of thought.

"We find some street contacts," Peter continued. "Float it out that old Neal Caffrey is back in business."

"That could take time and there's no guarantee," Neal pointed out.

"Why don't you just ask her out?" El asked.

Peter and Neal stared at her in silence.

"That could work," Peter nodded. "Think she'll say yes?"

"I could prob—" Neal began but had no time to finish before Elisabeth stated with certainty:

"Yes."

They both stared at her again. Then Neal met his eyes and gave him a sheepish grin and shrugged.

"Clean this table, guys, and I'll start with the dinner," El told them as she rose. "Those who want dessert are free to help out when the table is cleared."

* * *

Neal enjoyed every minute with Peter and Elisabeth. For the few hours, it lasted they gave him a home where he felt welcomed. A kind of home he never had when he grew up. They made him forget he was a criminal for a moment. Peter, of all people, made him feel normal and appreciated.

It was so obvious they loved each other. With his wife, Peter showed another side of himself. Neal guessed Elisabeth was right when she said Peter was probably about the same at home as at work. The most prominent difference was how relaxed he was at home. How much he could let go and let his wife take control.

And Elisabeth was such a wonderful woman. She just accepted him as he was. She did not question his choices or came with any jokes about his anklet or his situation as a consultant. It was the way it was and she accepted it.

At dinner, they talked about many things, but they never pushed him into telling them things. They kept to neutral subjects. Elisabeth knew about modern art, so that was a subject for a while. Cooking was another subject. Neal had to admit he was a pretty fair chef and Elisabeth told him that maybe she could hire him. Both he and Peter had skills in cipher and its history.

Hours passed without any thoughts about crimes, prison, solitary cells or anklets. It was a pleasure in every way, except Kate was not there to share this with him. It would have been perfect with her there, they as a young couple planning their future. He pushed the thoughts away.

"It's been a lovely evening. Thank you," he smiled at Elisabeth. "And that chicken was perfect."

To his surprise, Elisabeth hugged him.

"Welcome back any time, Neal."

He hugged her back.

"Thank you."

He held out this hand to his handler.

"Thank you, Peter."

The agent gave him a warm smile and shook his hand.

"Thank you, Neal."

He said good night and left before it all became too overwhelming.


	10. Dinner plans

**Dinner plans**

"To history, old and new," Neal declared and raised his glass to Maria across the table.

"How does an FBI agent get a table here?" she asked. "It's, like, a six-month wait."

It was an exclusive restaurant, but small and intimate. Just the right place to impress her and send a message, Neal figured.

"Oh, an FBI agent doesn't," he beamed at her. "Don't forget I had a previous life."

"Oh, yeah. Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"You could say that. How about you? Who were you in your previous life?"

"Same person I've always been, with '90s hair."

"I doubt that." An idea crossed his mind. "Let me see your lifeline."

Maria shook her head.

"No."

"Come on," Neal begged. "It'll help fill in the blanks."

"You're not seriously gonna read my palm right now, are you?"

She laughed but offered him her left hand, palm up. He took it both of his, stroke the skin with his thumbs.

"Oh, calluses," he noted. "Not afraid to get dirty."

Maria nodded.

"Well, that's true. What else?"

"No ring. Between that and the calluses, I'm guessing work gets in the way."

She did not reply to that, but freed her hand and took his.

"No ring for you either," she pointed out.

"No. Prison got in the way." No need to lie about that.

Maria folded her hands under her chin and studied him.

"So it must be weird for you working for the FBI."

"I don't know. It's always interesting to read from the other team's playbook."

"The other team? I thought you were out of the game."

"Oh, I am," he assured her with a tone none of them believed. "Retired and rehabilitated."

She watched him across the rim of her wine glass.

"Have you found your missing Bible?"

"Not yet." He leaned forward. "You know anyone who wants to buy one?" he whispered.

"Maybe. Looters approach me all the time," she smiled. "So do buyers. It's a very attractive offer."

"It sure is."

He had Maria interested alright. She handed him the menu.

"Surprise me."

"Oh, you sure? I might order something you don't like and then where will we be?"

"I trust you. After all, you work for the FBI."

A huge hint she did not trust him since he worked for the FBI.

"More wine?" he asked.

"Now you read minds?"

Neal looked deeply into her eyes.

"The question is, do you?"

* * *

Neal followed Maria inside her house. He had kept her away for an hour as requested by Peter, but barely more than that. He hoped it had been enough.

"Some wine?" she asked and Neal saw she had two glasses and a bottle prepared.

"Why not?"

"So, what shall we talk about?"

"There's this story about these two spies," Neal began. "A French duke and an Italian count. They're sworn enemies who spent the whole year trying to trick each other. But on New Year's Eve, they got to ask one question the other had to answer truthfully."

Maria had taken the bottle and the glasses to the desk and stood with her back to him.

"Yes. The trick was asking the right question because you may never get another chance."

"I've always said honesty is a more challenging game."

Now was the time to make her reveal if and where she had the Bible.

"This wine needs to breathe." She turned to him, bottle in hand. "I'm gonna get a decanter. Why don't you put some music on?"

She left the room with efficient speed. Neal did not miss that she left the room with a poor excuse. Did she want to test him by leaving him alone or did she want to check something up? He walked towards the stereo passing the place where the two glasses still waited. A vase with various pens and brushes had been moved. He could see the rim of dust-free space beside the vase when it should have been under the bottom of it. Oh, great, now she knew someone had been there.

He saw she preferred old-fashioned LP records. He took one and turned around, scanning the room carefully. There was a security camera, alright.

"What are you in the mood for?" he called, knowing he was watched.

"Oh, you know…" she replied from somewhere inside the house.

"Surprise you."

He picked a record with romantic classics.

Maria returned and served them wine.

"While you wait to find your missing Bible, would you like to see another medieval Bible?" she asked, smiling, flirting.

She fetched a big book and opened it on the desk.

"It's fantastic" Neal mused at the excellent artwork.

"It took the monks ten years to finish a Bible. Writing every letter by hand, word by word."

"Ten years painting the same Bible. Stalking God."

"If it weren't for the monks' devotion we would've lost one of the most significant works of Greek literature forever."

Neal pulled himself from the beautiful pages and tried to appear bored.

"It's stunning."

"I agree," Maria replied and moved closer, eating him with her eyes. She moved in for a kiss. But she paused just an inch from this lips.

"You know what?" she whispered. "I don't trust you."

"Smart. I wouldn't trust me either."

"Let's play the spies' game. I'll ask you a question."

Oh God, was she tempting and inviting and still out of reach.

"I have to tell you the truth?"

"And you have to tell me the truth."

"Okay. Make it a good one."

"Which Neal Caffrey are you? Are you working for the good guys? Or are you working a bigger game?"

Neal did not answer. He looked at the vase. He knew he would not be able to lie. If he said he was on her side, wanting to buy the Bible, and convinced her, he would convince the FBI too.

* * *

A block away stood a municipal van where Peter, Jones, and Lauren had listen to Neal and Maria with the hope to hear something vital about the Bible's whereabouts. The last minute they had heard nothing but a mumble from the both of them. Though Lauren had speculated about technical problems Peter was pretty certain it was not of the kind his fellow agent had in mind.

Then they heard a crackle and it went silent.

"What happened?" Lauren asked.

"Neal happened," Peter sighed.

Damn kid! He hoped all there was to it was Neal proving for Maria Fiametta he did not work for the FBI. The worst about it was that Neal would tell him the truth about the meeting and there would be no way to tell if there was more to it. They probably made some sort of deal, Neal and their Cindiana Jones, including the Bible. It did not mean that Neal would not take it and run when the had the chance. The problem was that without a recording of their meeting, Neal would be a target for any suspicions if this went wrong for any other reason.

* * *

Neal had picked up the bug he guessed was in the vase and dropped it in his wine glass.

"That answer your question?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"Feds linked Barelli's Bible to Paul Ignazio and you to Paul through his visits to the college. Look, Maria. I'm living proof if the feds want something from you they'll turn your life inside out to get it. They'll tell Barelli you have his book."

"Even if I don't?"

Neal took her hand and placed it on top of the Bible they looked at together.

"I can get you 250,000 in two days." It was the sum Peter had told him to offer. More than that was not within reason for the FBI and also what was possible that a con-man like him, in his position, could afford.

"It is worth a lot more than that."

"Not if you're in prison or dead," Neal pointed out. "Between the FBI and the mob, there's no way you can move it. I can."

"The other team's playbook." Maria considered. "If I shouldn't risk it, why are you? Won't they send you back for good?"

Neal showed her the anklet.

"I'm already in prison. We have a deal?"

She grinned.


	11. Escape

**Escape**

Peter met Hughes and Ruiz by the elevator the next morning.

"Maria Fiametta has the Bible," Peter informed Hughes, preventing himself from grinning since he knew the bastard beside his boss heard it too.

"Who?" Ruiz asked and Peter told them what she knew about her on the way up. "She probably killed Paul for it," he ended the story.

"How did you know she was in on it?" Hughes asked Peter as they stepped out of the elevator and walked into the office.

"Lucky hunch." He saw Hughes tried to hide a smile in that stern face of his. He did not like Ruiz either.

"Ruiz?" Hughes asked. The nasty little fellow followed them as if he had considered he had the right to know.

He checked his phone a final time.

"I checked Paul's credit," he muttered. "He got wired 10 G's from a shell corporation in Gibraltar owned by your lady professor."

Peter allowed himself to grin this time. The first thing the guy had done was to check it up.

"Oh, by the way, how did last night's fishing go?" Hughes asked. "Get any tape?"

"Equipment failure," Peter returned. It was true. Of what sort he did not have to tell them.

They walked up the short staircase from the office landscape to the rooms.

"But Caffrey says she has the book," Peter told them. "She'll sell, but only to him."

"Of course he'd say that," Hughes grunted. "The terms?"

"Two-fifty, wired to a Swiss account."

"No way," Ruiz declared as if he had any saying in this. "What if he cuts a deal with her? He runs away with the book."

"What choice do we have?" Peter asked.

"We don't," his boss decided and did not care for Ruiz sound of protest. "I don't need another dead body in the East River. We'll set up a dummy account."

Peter frowned. Hughes considered it settled but Peter did not.

"That's risky. What if she takes a shot at Neal?"

"I wouldn't lose any sleep over it," Ruiz snorted.

Peter sent him a glare. Neal had the right to the same protection as any agent, no matter what this scumbag thought of their consultant.

Neal swung up the few steps up the stairs and sent the two grumpy men in front of Peter a beaming smile each.

"Morning, guys. Everybody sleep okay?"

Peter smiled. This kid was just incredible. He knew very well that Ruiz and Hughes were not his biggest fans. And yet he shared his charm and positive spirit to them as well as everybody else around him.

Ruiz left without a word.

"Just set up the account, Peter," Hughes muttered and aimed for his office.

* * *

Peter nodded for him to follow him to his office. Neal did. Peter sat down by his desk.

"You'll arrange with Cindiana Jones for the buy tomorrow," his handler instructed as his fingers ran over the keyboard.

"The money?"

"Hughes approved of the deal."

Neal smiled and felt this heart beat faster.

"And of me to make the deal?"

"Well, you told me she would only sell to you, so what choice do we have?"

Peter fiddled with a phone.

"Cayman's First National." He rose from the chair and handed Neal the phone. "I'll e-mail you the PIN right before the buy."

Amazed, Neal looked at the display. Two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollar on the account.

"First they send me to prison. Tomorrow they give me a quarter million taxpayer dollars in an offshore account. Guess that shows how much confidence they have in you."

Peter nodded.

"And how much I have in you."

Neal stared at Peter. Did he trust him not to run? Peter sat down by his desk again.

"I told you, I'll have to cut my anklet for Maria to trust me."

"I know," Peter confirmed.

Neal could not find a word to say. Peter watched him.

"Will you run?" he asked.

"No," Neal replied. It was the truth. He had made a deal with himself long ago to never lie to Peter. During the interrogation, he had seen it as a challenge to be able to answer any question without lying and still never give up a single bit of vital information. Now it was a matter of gaining Peter's trust.

"Good. Because I want to show bastards like Ruiz that you're a valuable member of this team. Please, don't screw it up."

Neal smiled. He remembered Peter out on the pier.

"That guy really pissed you off, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "Where is my jacket, by the way."

His handler was not the man who did forget things and kept an eye on his possessions. Well, Neal had no intention to steal the jacket. He shrugged as if it was nothing to it.

"Sorry. Left it at home. You'll get it tomorrow. I promise."

Neal was about to leave Peter's office for his desk.

"Neal?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you up to something?"

Peter's eyes studied him. Not angry or accusing, just curious. He sent his handler a smile.

"Why should I be?"

"Because that jacket seems to never find its way back here."

"Shall I walk back home and get it for you, right away?"

"No. But you better have it with you, tomorrow."

"It will be safely returned to you tomorrow. Trust me."

* * *

When Peter walked down the stairs the next morning he felt like he had not been sleeping at all. El was already awake and was working by the dining-room table.

"Morning. You're up early," she commented. Like she had not been up for an hour already.

"Yeah. I couldn't sleep. Big day."

"I can tell. You're wearing your lucky tie."

He realized he had picked the special tie without thinking. It was the tie that he had been wearing the day he dared to talk to Elisabeth the first time. Then he had not thought of it as ugly, but he had come to terms with his luck that his future wife saw beyond his lack of interest in fashion. Since then he had worn the tie for good luck sometimes, mostly when it came to situations concerning his wife.

"Hey, did you find the Bible?"

"Yeah. The professor had it. Neal's gonna buy it back."

He fought with his tie. It was in an odd material, hard to tie properly.

"You're giving him money? Wow. No wonder lucky tie."

"No way. We set up a fake wire transfer."

El turned to him, giving him her full attention.

"Then what are you worried about?"

"He has to convince her that he's working us. Which means he has to cut his anklet for real. The book's worth a fortune. He could run with it." God knew what he would let loose today. He had cold feet and had had that all night.

Elisabeth rose and took command over his tie.

"Well, you have a lot more faith in a ratty old tie than you do Neal."

"Yeah. Well, this ratty old tie has never forged a priceless map of Vinland."

A crime he had not known about and it was probably not the only thing the FBI missed. What else was there to find? He knew he should investigate but did not want to. If he believed Neal could walk the thin and narrow then it was the future that counted, not his past.

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that he'll do the right thing?"

"Let's just say that's not his first instinct."

"And trust isn't yours."

"Occupational hazard. I like to know I can count on something."

"I know you do." El gazed at him with a serious face. "Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith."

She gave him a kiss and returned to her computer. His wife trusted Neal. Perfect. Had he charmed her? Or did she see something he did not dare to see?

He wished he could trust Neal. He wanted to. But he was a federal agent and Neal a convicted felon who avoided them for years. The only reason Peter had to trust Neal was their odd bond and it was not good enough. Not when it came to work. It was not the next door neighbor asking to borrow a book or a tool. This was a criminal who fooled the law and it was Peter's damn job to bring Neal back to prison if he did not stay within his boundaries. Then he could not allow himself to trust.

* * *

Peter entered the van. Lauren was already there since she drove it here earlier in the morning.

"Everything working?" he asked.

"Yeah," she confirmed and put away her book. Peter saw the sidewalk across the street and the entrance to Maria Fiametta's office. This where Neal would turn up in about an hour. Peter took a seat.

Lauren took the opportunity to question him about his career and asking for advice. In the middle of it all, Ruiz turned up. Peter had hoped he would not show up, but coming so late as he did was not professional. It could draw attention to the van.

Ten minutes later Neal walked down the sidewalk in a white shirt and his hands in his pocket. He stopped outside the office and wandered back and forth, waiting.

"Look at him," Ruiz hissed. "Son of a bitch should be in leg irons, you ask me."

"Nobody asked you, Ruiz." Peter pointed out.

"He conned you too, Pete, huh?"

Peter did not bother to comment. He knew Neal had not conned him into anything, that he was sure of. No matter what other people thought, it was not Neal's silver tongue that had got him the deal. There were more to people than a single epithet.

Lauren straightened up in her chair.

"Here she comes."

* * *

Neal grinned as Maria walked down the stairs.

"Hey," she greeted him.

He took her in his arms and mumbled in her ear.

"We have a chaperone. White van over my left shoulder."

She giggled. And giggled even more as his hands wandered over her body. If she had a gun it was in her purse. He let his left hand search a little further down her thigh. This would surely annoy Ruiz at least if he was in the van.

He let go of her.

"You're clean."

"Thank you. Your turn."

She brought out a device from her bag and started by his thigh and crossed his groin on the way up. Well, he had been pretty intimate with her too.

"No bugs. So where's my money?"

Neal held up the phone he got from Peter.

"Where's my book?"

Maria pointed at a red sports car and unlocked it with the remote.

"You ready?"

"When I cut the anklet, our friends are gonna know I'm running. Can you lose them? I'm not going back in."

"I've been chased by the carabinieri, drug cartels in Bogota-"

"I get it. You're good." Neal brought out a multi-tool and opened the scissors. He knelt, gazing at the van. And cut the band to the anklet. Though it was all planned and sanctioned by the FBI a shiver went through his body. If he was considered a fugitive he would go back to prison for life.

"With all due respect, Neal, we could make quite a fine pair."

"With all due respect, Maria, shut up and drive."


	12. Angry gangster

**Angry gangster**

"He cut the tracker!" Ruiz said in a tone as if Peter was an idiot.

"Right on schedule," Peter replied without losing focus on the screen.

"You knew about this?"

"Of course. He had to convince her he's rigging the system."

"What if he really is?"

"There are a dozen unmarked in the area. N.Y.P.D. has eyes in the sky. There's nowhere to hide." He had not told Neal about this though. It was far more interesting to see what the kid would do without that information. Fiametta drove away with Neal.

"Let's go."

* * *

They had stopped at an abandoned building site. A wide open space where no one could hide unnoticed. Neal noted a helicopter in the sky to the east, hanging still in the air. Had Peter made sure he had eyes on him? Plausible. Without supervision, he could take the book and run. Would Peter believe him if he said it had not crossed his mind? Probably not.

Maria walked around the car.

"I can't believe I'm doing this." She opened the trunk. "I spent a long time looking for her."

There is was. Things with history had always fascinated Neal. And this book was Medieval, seven hundred years old. Hands from many generations had touched it. And now it was his turn.

"I guess it wasn't meant to be." Neal pulled on the white cotton gloves and picked it up. He opened it. "It's calfskin vellum. Golden chalice of Paul."

"You satisfied?"

"Very," Neal confirmed. He picked up his phone. "Sending. It's on its way… And here it is."

"Thank you very much," Maria confirmed the transfer on her side.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you," Neal beamed at her.

"You'll never know how much pleasure it could have been." And there she was pointing a gun at him. God, how he hated guns. And he disliked with all his heart how so many waved their lethal potential around as if it was capable of little else than posing as a threat.

"You know, I had a feeling all that lovey-dovey stuff last night was BS."

"Next time, you should trust your instincts."

"Oh, I did." Neal held the clip to the gun up to her. "Clip. Lifted it when I patted you down."

When she had giggled at his left hand down her thigh he had had his right in her purse.

"You forgot about the one in the chamber."

"Damn it. I've never been a gun guy." He was, actually, but he had hoped she was not. Most people carrying guns did not have a bullet in the chamber.

"Give me the book, Neal."

"Sorry. If you're gonna take me on, it's gonna cost you a small fortune." He held the book up in front of him as a shield. "You can't do it? Is it because of the money or the history?"

"You know the answer."

"Is that why you killed Paul?" Where was Peter? He was supposed to turn up now.

"Paul wanted the money and the book." Just as you do now, Maria.

"Yeah. That's what happens when you get greedy." He heard the gun fire and felt his back hit the ground.

* * *

Peter throw himself out of the van the second it stopped.

"Drop the gun!" he yelled at Maria. "Gun down or we shoot. Gun down!"

He had her at gunpoint and she saw it. Lauren backed him up, also aiming her gun at Maria.

"Right now, put your gun down," Peter called out again. "Your hands behind your head."

She put it down and raised her hands.

Peter saw Neal lying on the ground.

"Man down. Man down!" he called out and rushed to him. No blood. He was breathing. Neal's eyes searched his. Was the kid alright?

"Cut it a little close there, pal," Neal said in a weak voice. Peter help him to his feet. He saw the bullet buried in the cover of the book.

"Guess the big guy had your back, huh?" He pattered Neal on his shoulder, happy that the kid was alright. He scanned the area with a smile. They made it. Neal had not run.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing. You made Lauren's day." Lauren grinned all over her face as she cuffed Maria Fiametta.

"Yeah, not Barelli," Ruiz sighed. Peter saw the gangster and his gang of bodyguards arrive.

"How did you and your scouts find out about this?" Peter asked "N.Y.P.D.?"

"I got one of those police scanners," Barelli admitted. "It's a hobby."

He saw the professor be placed in the backseat of a car.

"She's Paulie's shooter? Some kind of lover's quarrel?" he grinned.

"Just business," Peter assured him. "I hate to break it to you, but your nephew decided to freelance behind your back."

"Oh, it's sad, you know," Ruiz commented. "If you can't trust family, who can you trust?"

Barelli did not bother to comment on the news about Paul.

"So if you guys are done, I'd like my Bible back. Mass starts in one hour."

"Would it kill you to say thank you, huh? Would it?" Peter growled.

Barelli shrugged.

"I guess it would," Peter gave up. He turned to Neal. "All right, just give it to him."

"What?"

He stared at Neal.

"What do you mean 'what'? Give him the Bible."

"I gave it to some FBI guy."

Everything had seemed perfect less than a minute ago. And now the damn kid had stolen the god-damned Bible right in front of his nose. He could not believe it!

"'Some FBI guy'?"

Peter could not stand the innocent face staring back at him as if the kid did not know anything. 'Some FBI guy' indeed.

Barelli stepped up to Neal.

"Think you can get over on me?" Barelli spat into Neal's face. "You'll wish you were never born."

"Yeah. I seem to be getting this speech a lot lately," the kid replied.

Peter had to admire who resilient Neal was in all of this.

"Hey," Ruiz interfered. "Just shut up, Barelli."

Barelli glared at the man.

"No way. This ain't over."

When the gangster walked away Ruiz was not late to focus on Neal.

"Where is it, Caffrey? I'll let Barelli give you a ride home."

"Look, I'm telling you guys I don't know." Sure he did not. Peter grinned all over his face when he saw what could have happened.

"Oh. I know where it is." Neal turned and gave him an odd look.

* * *

They walked into the church. Barelli first with Peter on the trail and Neal was quick to keep up. He did not want to upset Peter even more and especially not give him any reason to think he was about to escape. Neal was still off anklet. He knew he could round a corner on his own and be gone. But it was not worth it. Not on an impulse without a plan. So he stuck close to Peter.

Steve sat in front of the altar with his dog, Lucy. Her head was resting on the book. Barelli marched up to Steve.

"Hey, pally," Barelli sneered. "What are you doing with my Bible?"

"She would've died without it," Steve defended himself. "If I…"

He handed the book to the gangster who yanked it out of his hand. Steve made an effort to leave.

"Not so fast, wacko. You know who you're messing with?"

"You've got it, Barelli," Peter interfered. "Just leave him alone."

"No, I'm not gonna let this go!" Lucy licked Barelli's hand and the gangster's eyes went to the dog. "Hey. Hey, sweet girl."

"Her name's Lucy."

Neal smiled when he saw Barelli sitting down on his heels, petting Lucy.

"Lucky Lucy. She don't look good. What's the matter?"

"She's been sick. Until today."

Barelli rose, thoughtful.

"I got this vet in Yonkers. He saved my pugs from diabetes. Wanna take a ride? Go see him? Have her checked out?"

Steve sent him and Peter a look. They both nodded. Neal had seen Barelli's body language soften and his voice had no edge. Peter must have sensed the same.

"Okay," Steve agreed and followed Barelli out of the church with Lucy.

Neal saw Peter looking at him.

"I was gonna give it back after," he whispered.

"I know."

Peter strolled down the aisle.

"How'd you know?" Neal was eager to learn. Peter had seemed so confident, yet Neal had been certain that Peter had not noticed Mozzie in the FBI windbreaker taking the Bible from Neal. When Mozzie wanted to be invisible he was.

"Okay, I didn't know," Peter admitted. "But I took a leap of faith that you'd do the right thing."

Neal grinned. He had an idea who placed that thought into his head.

"Elizabeth?"

"Yeah."

Barelli handed the Bible to the priest on the way out the church.

"I told you it's a healing Bible," Neal teased Peter.

"Oh, here we go. No way. Barelli's a softy for dogs."

"Oh, not enough smiting and lightning for you?"

They watched Barelli scratching Lucy behind the ear. Yes, it had been a good day. Peter grinned all over this face.

"That's not a miracle. Come on. It's not a parting of the Red Sea."

"I'll take my miracles where I can get them," Neal smiled. No matter if there was a god or not, small acts of goodness happened every day. If you noticed them, life became a happier place.

Two guys with FBI printed on their clothes in big letters walked into the church.

"We have the honors?"

Neal saw one of them holding the anklet. Well, it was good while it lasted.

"Yes, sir." He hitched up the left leg of his slacks and they fastened it around his ankle. He felt the weight.

"She's back."

He glanced at Peter. He was looking at him, but Neal was not sure how to read that look. He seemed proud, pleased. But for what? That he just made sure his convicted felon got his anklet back on, or because he thought Neal had done a good job?

On the way out Peter stopped.

"Hey, is that my jacket?" On a bench lay the FBI windbreaker Neal had borrowed from Peter that day at the docks, last Thursday.

"He works in mysterious ways." But Neal did not mean God this time. "I promised you, remember?"

Peter took his jacket and gave him a grin. That look was less hard to read.

"Your friend, right?"

Neal shrugged with a smile.

"As I said, he works in mysterious ways."

* * *

Neal had a hard time sleeping and was up early. Mozzie was snoring on his coach. The friend had returned the bottle last night and they had mulled over its mysteries. Or no mystery, as Moz believed. It was too early for whiskey but Neal sipped from what was left in the glass from the night before. He slung himself down in a chair and put his feet on the table.

He turned the bottle over in his hands. He had seen the video of their last meeting over and over. She did spell 'bottle' with her fingers. No question about it. It was depressing. She was in need and he could not help her.

He placed the bottle by a candle Neal forgot to turn out before he went to bed for a few hours of sleep. Nothing had happened, but it was foolish to leave it like that.

Then he stared at the label. Something appeared in the heat of the flame.

"Mozzie, wake up." He grabbed the bottle. "Moz. Mozzie!"

"Let me see your warrant," Mozzie yelled in panic and then came to awake. "Oh. What?"

"Come here." Neal smiled.

Mozzie got to his feet. When he saw the map on the label of the bottle his mouth dropped open.

"Lemon juice and a candle," Neal mused.

"How did I miss this?" Mozzie wondered.

"Weren't you ever a Boy Scout?"

"Oh, I got kicked out."

Neal gazed at his friend.

"Pinewood derby, magnets, it was a whole thing," Moz explained. It did not seem as his most fond memory.

"It's a map."

"Of the New York City subway. What do you think it means?"

Neal had no idea, yet. But he would find out.


	13. Elisabeth pays a visit

**Elisabeth pays a visit**

They had been doing minor cases in the office for a few days. Peter did not mind to keep to regular office hours for once, but Neal appeared to be utterly bored. He sat on the other side of Peter's desk leaning his head in his hand, staring at the papers with vacant eyes. Papers that were upside down from his point of view.

Peter mimicked Neal's pose but glared at him instead, waiting for a reaction. It did not come.

"What are you thinking?" Peter asked at last.

Neal raised his eyes and met his.

"I'm thinking it was the accountant, in the law office."

So he had not been that vacant after all.

"With the illegal wire transfer." It made sense.

"Either that or Colonel Mustard in the library," Neal said as if he was dead serious.

"We can pull prints on the candlestick," Peter agreed. "Let's grab his company's financial records from last year. They're on file."

He watched Neal, waiting. The kid saw his face and looked surprised.

"You want me to do it?" he asked.

Peter nodded.

"We have clerks for that," Neal objected.

"I got something better. I got you."

"Okay." Neal rose and left without objections. Impressive. It was about time his protegé learned to find his way around the files. Even better if he learned to ask for help.

* * *

Neal walked along the shelves with box files labeled with codes that did not mean anything to him. What was he supposed to do? He noted that Lauren turned up for some material and Neal made an effort to look like he knew what he was doing among the files.

"Sticking around, huh?" he asked. She had been called over to keep an eye on him on the party where they hoped to catch Ghovat. And then she had just stayed.

"Yeah."

She pulled a document out of a box like she knew exactly where to look for it.

"Hey, is it true you once sent champagne to a surveillance van?"

"That's the rumor," he replied. "Been checking up on me?"

"You were part of my thesis at Quantico."

"Really? How did we do?"

"Ninety-four."

Gee, she did find the documents she needed with speed. Neal gave up to do this on his own and turned the charm. The woman had always done her best to act like a mature FBI agent but did little else than appear like a teenage girl in great need to act like an ice cube in his presence.

"Not bad. Find anything interesting?"

"Truth or rumor?"

"Is there a difference?"

"The counterfeit certificates were your only conviction. But you're implicated in at least a dozen confidence schemes, frauds, and forgeries."

It was no secret. If that was all she came up with she had a long way to go.

"Is that why you asked to be reassigned to the White Collar Unit?"

"I wasn't gonna pass up a chance to work with someone I've admired since college."

"Play your cards right, we'll make a case or two," he beamed at her.

"Oh, honey. I was talking about Agent Burke. He caught you twice, right?"

Poor girl, with the need to appear superior like that. She was as far as she could be from the man she admired. Neal, however, knew very well who he was and why he was there. And prison had taught him not be humiliated that easy.

"Hey, maybe you can help me because I'm looking for some records."

"Yeah? We got clerks for that."

And he was alone again. Well, they had clerks but he had a brain at now it had suddenly turned interesting to use it again. He checked the boxes Lauren had picked her documents from. He knew what cases she was working with. These things were no secrets. And now he knew the codes for the boxes and from there he could figure out the system.

* * *

Jones walked into his office.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Your wife's here."

Peter's head bounced up.

"She's not alone."

Peter rose and walked to the door, scanned out into the office. There she was. With her friend Dana.

"She looks upset to you?" Peter asked.

"No, they look- They both look upset," Jones expressed his sympathies. "You know, a buddy of mine, he always kept a separate cell phone. One for the wife, one for the girlfriend. It helps avoid this kind of crossover."

"That's not my girlfriend, okay? I don't have a girlfriend. It's El's friend, Dana. They've known each other since high school." Elisabeth left her friend on a chair by Neal's empty desk and walked up to him.

"Hi, honey," Peter greeted her.

"We need to talk."

"Okay. Thanks, Jones. That'll be all." Jones left and Peter made a gesture towards his visitor's chair.

"Have a seat, honey." He walked around his desk and swung down in his chair. Only to realize El was still standing. He bounced up again. "So why is Dana here? Is she okay?"

"No. It's actually about her husband, John."

"Hot-wings guy," Peter confirmed and got an odd look from Elisabeth. "Remember, he made those hot wings at the barbecue, the Cooper barbecue a while back?"

"Right, him."

"He was stationed overseas," Peter remembered.

"He finished last month."

"What's the problem?"

"This morning the FBI issued a warrant for his arrest." Oh, that kind of problem. He sat down and turned towards his computer.

"All right, what's the last name?"

"Mitchell."

Peter did not miss the tone of rebuke for him not knowing John's and Dana's last name.

"Mitchell," he repeated when he typed. "What happened?"

"Some stolen gold in a storage shed. They think he brought it. Dana came to me for help. She has no idea why he's a suspect."

Peter stared at the information that appeared on the screen.

"Think I do."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's gold artifacts from Iraq. Got his prints all over the place. Hair evidence. El, this doesn't look good."

Neal flung the door open.

"Found that file—" He halted in the middle, file in his hand, realizing what he had stepped right into. "This can wait."

"No," Elisabeth stopped him. "Neal, come in." Peter watched Neal obediently sitting down on the other visitor's chair beside El.

"Now, Neal, just because someone's accused of doing something that doesn't mean that that person is guilty, right?" she prompted. Neal shrugged.

"Define guilty." He smiled as if he wanted to dodge the seriousness of the question.

"You think he's the best person to ask?" Peter pointed out.

"Neal?" Elisabeth insisted.

"I suppose it's possible."

"See? That's what I thought," his wife stated as if it proved anything.

Peter read through the information on the screen.

"This says 'whereabouts unknown.' Is he on the run?"

"He's at his brother's," Elisabeth told him. "I didn't know the address."

Peter sighed. What had his beloved El got involved in?

"If you're keeping information, that's aiding and abetting!"

Neal rose from his seat.

"Okay… I think I grabbed the wrong file. I'm gonna get the right one."

"No, stay," Peter ordered. Neal sunk back on the seat. "My turn. If we have your prints and hair on the scene and you're on the run, are you guilty?"

"Oh, now he's the best person to ask?" Elisabeth protested. Neal met his eyes. Peter did not feel at all sorry for bringing Neal into this. Wife or not, this was the job. Neal turned to Elisabeth.

"I think your friend should turn himself in."

Peter fought to hide a proud smile.

"I completely agree with you" Elisabeth nodded. "That's why I told Dana to tell him what to do. Turn himself in."

"So he is turning himself in?" Peter asked.

"Yes," she confirmed. "He's gonna be turning himself in to you."

It felt like a sledgehammer down on him. Wife's friend's husband. Too close for comfort. Peter's eyes searched Neal's for some form of reassurance in this miserable situation. Well, Neal's presence reminded him he would be able to put the kid back in prison if needed.

"Alright," he told El. "Arrange it and call me when he's outside."

"I will." She rose and smiled at him. "See you later, hon. Neal."

"Yeah." He watched her leave. "Great."

"You can cuff me if you have to," Neal pointed out, reading Peter's expression. "What's the difference?"

"I knew you as a criminal first." He did not know John that well, but his wife knew John's wife. This could turn out to be one heck of a mess.

* * *

The woman Neal had been told was John's wife Dana gave Peter a hug when they came out.

"Peter, thank you." She left for the approaching car.

"God, do I feel guilty," Peter told Neal. "You think he did it?"

Neal read in the file.

"Artifacts from the royal cemetery crypts of Ur in Egypt 1 000-year-old gold. A lot of money is always a lot of motive," Neal replied. Peter could be putting away the guy for a lot of years. "That's a shame. Apparently, he melted some of it down."

John stepped out of the car and hugged his wife, and then Elisabeth.

Neal followed Peter who approached the guy with the cuffs in his hands.

"John."

"Peter." He looked calm and composed, Neal noted. "I didn't do this. It was set up." A prepared answer without saying anything about its honesty.

"Your prints were all over the gold, John."

"My prints?" He appeared to be utterly surprised by this as if it was unexpected news. It was as if he hesitated if he would surrender or not. Peter must have sensed the same.

"I gotta—"

John seemed to make up his mind.

"Listen, please. Look, my lawyer said I shouldn't say a word. When I was overseas, a guy asked me to help him bring some goods to the States. I said no."

"John—"

"His name's Aimes. Patrick Aimes. He's in the State Department. Just look into it. Please." Peter nodded.

"I will."

John held out his hands and Peter cuffed him. Neal got shivers from the first time he got cuffed, in Italy. He had been bold and escaped then. He also noted something missing. John could not have melted down the gold.


	14. Prints

**Prints**

When Peter returned from the meeting with the Marshals concerning Mitchell Neal was waiting for him when he walked back into the office.

"That was surprise on Mitchell's face when we told him his prints were on the gold," Neal noted.

Peter nodded in agreement. An agent handed him a clipboard for a signature. He glances at it and signed it.

"I noticed that. But that doesn't get him off the hook."

"There's something else," Neal said with that awkward voice that Peter had learned to recognize by know.

Peter glanced at the kid. Oh, God, not another crime he did not know of, Peter thought since he could not remember anything including gold.

"What?"

"Before I go on, what's the statute of limitations on-?"

"Just tell me." That was the price Peter had to pay to have this kind of expertise. He walked back towards his office and Neal tagged along.

"You can't melt down gold without getting splash blisters on your arms no matter how careful you are."

"Well, Mitchell may be burn-free, but that doesn't make him innocent."

"Maybe we should check out this Aimes guy," Neal suggested.

Peter grinned and handed him a file.

"Already did."

Neal flipped the file open and Peter walked into his office to grab his suit jacket.

"He was working for the State Department overseeing the reconstruction of Mosul a few months back," he summarized the file contents for Neal.

"Where is he now?"

"Working for a private security contractor here in New York."

The jacket's collar had a habit of not getting in the right place. Peter fiddled with it.

"Sounds like he's done well for himself."

"I'm gonna go see how well." He took the file from Neal and left the office without his protégé. It was not fair to Neal to leave him to desk-job and any other day he would gladly have brought him along. But he needed some time alone. This case was too close for comfort and it would affect his private life as well since it was Elisabeth's best friend. He needed all his strength to pull this off.

* * *

Peter parked the car on the almost abandoned parking lot. By the fence with a view over a construction site stood a group of people. Peter stepped out of the car. He recognized Aimes as in the group. It seemed as he gave the others a tour of what the place would look like in the future.

"Mr. Aimes?" he called the man's attention. He pulled out his badge. "Am I interrupting? Peter Burke, FBI."

Aimes turned to his company.

"If you don't mind waiting for me by the cars, we'll finish this in a minute."

Peter glanced at a man by Aimes' side. While the others dropped off, he remained. Probably Aimes' bodyguard.

"If you don't mind, I have a few questions about some stolen Iraqi artifacts."

Aimes frowned for a second.

"Oh, right. I had read some important pieces were recently recovered."

"That's right. We have a suspect in custody."

"Well, good. I'm glad to hear justice will prevail."

Peter did not fancy the attitude that a suspect was the same thing as they had caught the guilty one. It did happen all too often that a suspect remained guilty in the eyes of the public, though they were freed by the law. But Peter was not there to discuss attitudes. He was there because this man had been pinpointed as involved.

"Given your past experience, you might have some insight as to how a bunch of gold from Mosul finds its way to a storage shed near Fort Monmouth."

"Of course. Call my office. We'll set up a meeting."

"Sure."

Aimes and his bodyguard walked passed Peter towards their car. Peter turned.

"There was one other thing. The suspect says you framed him. Any idea why he might say that?"

"I wish I knew." No emotions on the man's face what so ever. It was blank as a mask. If you were blamed for something you had not done, you did at least become surprised.

Peter took a step closer but the bodyguard held up a hand, blocking his way.

"Is there something else, Agent Burke?" Aimes asked.

Peter glanced down at the other man's arm. It had blisters. He grinned and looked at Aimes.

"Nope. I got everything I need."

Aimes stepped into his car and the bodyguard took the driver's seat. Peter brought out his phone.

"Jones, have every recovered artifact moved to our office ASAP. I want to re-examine the evidence."

* * *

"Where's Peter?" Neal asked as he entered the conference room and only found Jones and Lauren there. "I thought he called this meeting."

"He's been poring over this with the Evidence Recovery Team," Jones told him, "since he saw blisters on Aimes' bodyguard."

Neal grinned. It felt good to be able to aid Peter with intel.

"Said something about a breakthrough," Cruz added.

Neal took one of the bowls. It was an amazing piece of art. Lauren pulled it out of his hands.

"Wow. I'm looking for clues," he told her.

"You're looking for your next jail sentence." She wore gloves. He did not. He grabbed another item and she took it away again.

"God!"

"Didn't you just join this unit?" It was so fun teasing her. He glanced at Jones who followed their little exchange.

"I didn't even have to go to prison first." Lauren handed him a pair of gloves.

Jones interfered.

"So if you were gonna frame somebody, how would you do it?"

"I've never framed anybody. Only been framed."

"Yeah?" Lauren stared at him. "What for?"

"Counterfeiting stock certificates and about a dozen other confidence schemes, frauds, and forgeries." A lie. But they knew it. He grinned. He was not about to give them anything they could use against him. He trusted Peter and Peter only.

Peter marched into the office.

"Hear you had a breakthrough," Neal greeted him.

"I got something," Peter confirmed. "Notice the prints." Neal took a bowl with a glove.

"Very clean," Jones noted.

"Maybe a little too clean?" Peter asked as he knew where it was heading.

"They're all Mitchell's?" Neal examined the bowl in his hand.

"Yup," Peter confirmed. "Notice anything else?"

The three of them studied at the prints.

"They're all left-handed," Neal concluded.

Jones glanced at him, seemed impressed. Peter nodded in agreement.

But Neal was baffled.

"That's improbable." How could someone handle something only with his left hand, Neal wondered.

"It's impossible," Peter stated with certainty. It was unless you made a thing of only leaving prints from one hand. But why would you do that? Normally you did not want to leave any prints at all.

"What does it mean?" Neal asked. It did not make any sense.

"I don't know."

Peter had that face of someone who enjoyed to find answers to riddles. This case had turned from an awkward situation to a challenge of the type he knew Peter enjoyed.

* * *

When Peter got home that night he found Dana crying by their kitchen table and El as the comforting friend. This was worse than he had feared. Not only was El involved, now was his suspect's wife in their home.

"Hi," he greeted them, out of his comfort zone. Elisabeth rose and gave him a hug.

"Hon, I offered Dana to stay here tonight."

Peter forced a sympathetic smile to his face that felt as fake as it was.

"Of course. You're welcome, any time."

"I'm so sorry," Dana cried. "I just can't stand the thought of our house without John right now."

Peter nodded, still with that sympathetic face glued on. This would not be just for this night. He would not get John out tomorrow. Right now it seemed as if he had been framed, but God knew if it was so or if Peter could prove it. Even so, it would take days, maybe weeks.

When they had dinner Peter just wanted to be somewhere else.

The morning Neal had walked into his home Peter had felt a sort of panic because he needed the comfort of his home and his wife to survive. Maybe it was true as El said that he never stopped being a federal agent just because he got home, but for him home was freedom. Freedom for his body and soul to recover. Somehow he had imagined that Neal would stay out of that bubble. When he had not, Peter had panicked. Then he had adapted and considered Neal as any other occasional guest.

Now when Dana had invaded his home, he felt the same panic only more of it. He could not remove Dana by a phone call. What worse was that he felt like an alien in his own home.

It did not get better the next day. Nothing had moved forward on the case and Dana was still staying in their home. He had not been able to have a private conversation with his wife. Not even sleep in his own bed. Dana had been unable to sleep so El had made them switch beds so she could comfort her friend.

Peter knew El meant well and had a big heart. She also saw things in another way. For her, it was a short-term arrangement. She could handle having her home turned upside down. She was an event planner, used to unexpected situations and solving problems involving people. Peter knew she would not through Dana out without hating herself and Peter for insisting, so Peter did not bring up the subject.

When another day's work came to an end Peter stared out of the window of his office, for the first time in his life not wanting to go home.

Neal entered with two files.

"Finished these two cases," he said as he placed them on Peter's desk.

Was this what Neal felt like all the time, Peter asked himself. Prevented from doing things, forced to do others? Left to the mercy of others. Peter pushed the thoughts away. He did not want to feel like a victim.

"Want to go for a beer?" he asked Neal.

The kid eyed him with surprise. Then he smiled.

"Sure thing, Peter."

* * *

Neal enjoyed the beer after work in Peter's company. Generally, he was not into beer much but to sit down after work as any normal man would do with a friend made up for it.

"You think the prints were planted?" he asked the senior agent. Neal's gut feeling told him John was innocent, but he knew very well that it did not count in this world.

"Well, it wouldn't be hard, would it?" Peter asked in return.

"Don't look at me." He had never used anyone's prints. Peter gave him a look. Sure, he knew how it was done. And he trusted Peter not to use the information against him. "It wouldn't be that hard. Starts by getting a clean set of prints and somebody got Mitchell's."

"But only his left hand," Peter considered. "Why only the left?"

"How was the gold found?" Neal wanted to know.

"Anonymous tip." Peter drank from his bottle.

"There's a red flag."

"Mm. Could be." Peter gulped more beer. Not the easy sips as he usually took.

"Easy. Easy there, Tiger," Neal stared at Peter. Something was nagging his handler. "Shouldn't you be getting home to Elizabeth?"

"Dana's been with us for a few days." And this was the reason Peter was not heading home.

"Oh. How's that going?"

"She's been through a lot," Peter replied with empathy.

"Oh, no. This has gotta be rough on her. It's gotta be." Had it been rough on Kate? Probably not in the same way, Neal had to admit to himself. His arrest had not landed out of the blue for her.

"Look, I try to be a good person," Peter began.

"You have your moments," Neal agreed. It was an understatement.

"Yeah, just— I don't—"

Peter fumbled for words. Neal tried to help him out.

"Is it the crying?"

"Yeah. I can handle everything else but women crying," Peter confessed to Neal. "That's all. I don't know what to do. I try to fix it. With you, I give you a slug on the shoulder."

"Totally."

"And I tell you to cowboy up. But it's—"

Peter had no words to describe the situation. Peter with his respect for human dignity, who had cared for the well-being of a criminal he had been chasing for years could not handle a crying woman. When Neal faced one, they usually huddled up close to him to get a hug and he gave them one. He guessed they did not do that with Peter.

"We got the print theory. That might cheer her up," Neal tried but was already thinking of something else.

"Yeah, it could be something, if I can link it to Aimes or the bodyguard." Peter noted Neal staring at him. "What?"

"We've been here an hour. But in that whole time, you've only touched these bottles with your right hand."

Peter was on his line of thought before he even had time to finish the sentence.

"Mitchell had drinks with whoever lifted the prints."

"Can you ask him?"

"Marshals are sitting on him. I could take the time to reach out, file the paperwork, go through the usual channels—"

"Or you could just ask his wife—"

"—Wife right now," Peter finished. He looked afar and gulped some more bear. "Can't say I look forward to it."

"But it'll go faster, right?" Neal encouraged.

Peter nodded. Neal wanted to add that Peter could not run from his own home, that he had to get back sometime anyway, but kept it to himself. It felt like it would not make things better. Besides who would he be telling someone not to run when he had spent more time of his adult life on the run than staying put and face the consequences.


	15. Alicia Teagen

**Alicia Teagen**

When Peter stepped over the threshold of his own home he felt like a burglar sneaking inside. He saw the two ladies by the dining room table.

"Hey, honey," he smiled at his wife.

"Hey, honey."

"Hey, Dana," he walked into the living room, dropping his briefcase on a chair. "How you holding up?"

Oh God, she had not even get dressed, he noted. She sat in pajamas and nightgown.

"It's hard, you know," Dana replied. "It's the not knowing that's killing me."

She appeared to be near crying.

"Any news?" El asked.

Peter bent down to pet Satchmo.

"Well, which do you want first?" he asked. "The good news or the bad news?"

It was an attempt to be normal, but Dana straightened up at once and gave him a look as if he was to blame for what had happened to her husband.

"There is bad news?"

"Not more than there has been," he assured her and sat down beside her. "He's still charged. It still looks pretty bad."

He saw El giving him a look. Gee, he could not make this right no matter what he did, could he?

"Here is good news," he switched the subject. "There are some evidence anomalies. Someone may have planted his prints on the gold."

"So you mean he really was framed?" she asked in return.

"It's possible," Peter confirmed, but could not stretch further than that. "I'm curious. Did he have drinks with anyone recently? The prints are crisp. Which would indicate a glass or a bottle. So it was probably for a beer."

Peter stared in amazement when Dana turned away and began to cry. El seemed as puzzled as he at least, but it did not make him feel less helpless.

"It's not okay, really," she sobbed.

"Yes, it is," he insisted. "This is the good-news part."

"Can I talk to you for a second?" El interrupted. "I'll be right back," she ensured Dana and they walk to the front door, out of sight from Dana and as far away as possible on the floor plan.

"What did I do?" Peter wanted to know.

"I don't know. See, she's crying."

"Yeah. I see that she's crying," he replied, frustrated and El hushed him. "I need to know if John met someone for a drink." A thought crossed his mind. "Maybe he didn't tell her. She suspects him of cheating?"

"Now I'll let you talk to her?" El asked dripping with irony.

"This is important!"

"Go upstairs," El told him. "Up. Stairs," she insisted when Peter did not move. He gave in and headed for the stairs. "Thank you."

Though Peter tried, he could not hear what they were saying. He walked back and forth in their bedroom, annoyed. Even more so when she saw Dana's clothes in on the floor instead of his.

At last, El came up the stairs.

"John had a drink with a journalist for a follow-up on an article she wrote earlier when they were in Iraq," she told him.

"Does he know her name?"

"No, but he lost his cap, too."

"A journalist who wrote about the soldiers in Iraq? Shouldn't be that hard to find," Peter figured. And if it was, John surely remembered her name. It would just take a longer time.

* * *

When Neal arrived the next morning Peter was already there. He said hello to Jones on the way out of their boss' office and Neal stuck his head inside.

"Any news or should I keep on working with the Venus case?" Neal found it utterly boring. Peter waved for him to come in. He smiled and sat down.

"Mitchell went for a beer with a woman," Peter told him. "Forgot his cap in the bar."

"The hat would explain the hair fibers," Neal noted and Peter agreed. "You had Elizabeth talk to her?"

"Well, I thought some female intuition would be helpful."

"Dana started crying, didn't she?"

"I didn't even do anything," his handler defended himself. "I had no idea what went wrong."

Neal laughed. Peter and women was always a fun mix.

"So who's this other woman?" he asked.

"This is Alisha Teagen," Peter threw a file into his lap. Jones had been busy this morning. "Segment producer. She was a reporter embedded with Mitchell's unit."

Peter put his feet on the desk and leaned back.

"All right, so she invites Mitchell out for a beer. Let's say she takes that opportunity to lift the prints off of the bottle. She grabs the baseball hat as an added bonus."

"Toss in a little DNA evidence to really lock the case."

"Right. How do we connect her to Aimes?"

"Do they know each other?" It would be too good to be true if they did.

"Other than the fact that they were in Iraq, there's nothing. If Aimes stole the gold, he isn't gonna ship it himself. He's gonna get someone else so that his hands stay clean in case they get intercepted."

"You know, press credentials aren't a bad way to get by customs." Neal had tried it once and it worked like clockwork. Journalists had a special kind of power over authorities. Peter did not notice Neal's possible experience in the area or did not care.

"Let's go talk to her."

* * *

Peter and Neal walked into the lobby of a modern, luxury office building.

"Wait here. I'll check in," Peter waved for Neal and continued to the security guard at the staff entrance.

"I'm here to see Alisha Teagen."

"She's not in yet," the guard answered without blinking. So Alisha Teagen was a woman you noted well enough to know if she among hundreds had arrived for the day.

Peter held up his badge.

"Agent Burke, FBI."

"Sorry, sir. Would you care to wait upstairs? She should be in any minute."

Peter smiled and turned to call for Neal. He saw his stretched out legs close to a woman's high-heeled. A plan took shape in his head. Neal would hate it. He turned towards the guard who had watched the conversation between the pairs of legs, too.

"Yeah, why don't I do that?"

The guard buzzed him through.

"Be sure to let her know Agent Burke with the FBI is here to talk to her," he instructed the guard.

"I'll be sure to do that."

Peter thanked the guard and moved inside the office where he got direction to get the elevator to the third floor.

* * *

"Wait here. I'll check in," Peter waved for him to take a seat on the bench. Neal sighed and sat down beside a beautiful brunette occupied by her phone. He glanced at it and her badge hanging from a clip.

"So, what's it like to be on camera?" he asked with his cutest puppy face.

"Oh, I'm not on camera," she smiled, flattered.

"Really?" Neal was honestly baffled. "But your badge here says, 'studio access.'"

"I'm a publicist, actually."

What did a 'publicist' do Neal wondered, and decided to remember the title and check it up later.

"Wow," he replied with admiration. "How is it up there?"

"Cutthroat. Looks like they just moved my meeting to 12:30. Excuse me."

She rose and left and Neal had no time to feel bored before his phone rang. Peter?

"Hello?"

"Hey," Peter greeted him at the other end of the line. Neal glanced around. Peter was not to be found.

"Peter, where are you?"

"Upstairs, on my way to Alisha's office."

What?

"You left me in the lobby."

"Well, you looked busy. Listen, Alisha's on her way in. I want you to watch how she reacts when the guard tells her there's an FBI agent waiting for her."

"No—" Neal began but Peter had hung up. His handler used him and it was nothing he could do about it. Peter had every right to. Neal was just not so keen on being reminded about it.

A blond woman in her forties marched by him towards the staff's entrance.

"Hi, Phil," she said to the guard.

"Morning, Miss Teagen. There's an FBI agent here to see you."

"Sorry? An FBI agent?"

"Said his name was Burke."

She appeared to be stressed, nervous, Neal noted as requested. On the other hand, who would not be nervous when the feds turned up unexpectedly?

"Tell him today's not a good day," she shook it off.

"He's already upstairs."

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"To let you know he's here."

"Oh, thanks." And she was gone.

So now he had observed. What now? Neal watched a few employees arrive. They greeted the guard and he knew them all by name. And of course, you needed a badge to beep to get through. Neal rose and hurried out. If Peter had been gracious enough to remind him he was a felon on an anklet, he could just as much use the opportunity. Just to make sure Peter got the message, Neal turned his phone off.

Minutes later he returned with eight cups of coffee in two paper trays in a pile and a bag of buns, making his hands full, holding the piles of coffee with his chin.

"Hey, Phil," Neal greeted the guard as the other had.

"Morning."

Neal moved as if he tried to free a hand to get his card.

"I ran out of hands. My card's in my pocket if you just wanna grab that there. Just get that for me?"

Phil glanced at him.

"Don't worry about it," he assured him and buzzed him through.

"All right, thanks, bud."

He had been just as keen to search someone's pockets as Neal had hoped for.

Next step was to find which floor Alisha Teagen had the studio she usually worked in.

* * *

Peter walked back and forth along a balcony with a nice view over the staircase. Two women crossed their ways on a balcony on the floor below and one addressed the other as Alicia. He smiled. She signed something in the other's hands and then moved on, away from the staircase. She was in no hurry to get to her office and her visitor.

Then he saw something that took his smile away. He saw Neal on the same balcony with a pile of coffee cups. What was he doing? It was trespassing! Why could he not leave that kid alone for ten minutes?! Peter picked up his phone and got to Neal's voice mail. He cursed to himself but he left a message anyway.

"Neal, I don't know what you're up to. But whatever it is, _stop_."

Not so much because he thought it would work, as he was covering his own back.

* * *

Neal had found Alisha Teagen and followed her into a tv-studio. He recognized the design and knew the news-program sent from this place. It was not without he felt a wave of awe. He saw Teagen talk to someone at the other end of the studio. A guy suspiciously looking like security in a suit glanced in his direction. Neal walked into the studio with his coffee and his bag. In best of cases, he could walk right through.

"Hi. I don't think I've seen you around here before." A woman's voice.

A news anchor he had seen many times stood with her male counterpart. And she was even more charming off camera, when she smiled at him.

"Oh, I'm Gary. The new sports anchor."

The real sports anchor, Leonard Stewart, stood just fifteen feet away signing a football for a young woman who seemed to adore the man. Neal never liked him.

"New sports anchor?" the woman repeated but though this was news to her, she did not seem to mind.

"New guy brings the coffee, right?" Neal grinned and walked up to them and placed the coffee on the desk he had seen on TV numerous times.

"Thanks, Gary."

"Hey, no problem."

People in the studio grabbed the mugs and returned to their jobs.

"What about Leonard?" the male news anchor — quite a legend — wanted to know.

"Oh, you didn't hear? Yeah, that's why the meeting got moved to 12:30."

Alisha Teagen left the studio and Neal moved to follow her.

"Don't say anything to Leonard," he told the baffled news anchors.

"Great work, champ," he pattered Leonard on the shoulder on his way out.

He just walked through a well-known TV-studio and said hello to his favorite news anchors and they accepted him as one of their own. It pained him to know that they would hate him soon enough when the new sports anchor never turned up again and they realized they had been fooled. On the other hand, they would not likely remember what he looked like. Neal knew he was charming but he also knew his face had ordinary features with nothing special that made it memorable.

The modern office had the advantage of lots of glass. He slumped down in a chair outside Teagen's office area and still had a clear view of her. She put something in a locked drawer at her desk, and kept the key in her purse. Well, those kinds of drawers had locks that could easily be picked with a paper-clip. And the office was just about empty.

* * *

"Alisha Teagen?" Peter held out his hand to the blond woman who had taken a detour to avoid him.

"Oh, you must be Agent Burke." She shook his hand. "I hope this won't take long. I'm on deadline."

Peter gestured for a conference room nearby.

"Have a seat." He pulled out a chair for her, making sure she had her back to the glass wall and the view over the office. Neal was somewhere around and whatever he was up to, Alisha better not see him.

"I'm curious about the piece that you did on Captain Jonathan Mitchell," he explained his errand as he sat down opposite her. The second he did it he saw Neal walking across the office with a rose in his hand.

"Oh, Mitchell. Of course."

"What was your impression of him?" Peter asked, focusing on his own job.

"He seemed like a good soldier."

"That's it?"

"To be honest, I didn't find him memorable."

"Then why did you have a follow-up on him?"

"I was doing a series of segments on vets returning home. How they're readjusting to life after the military."

She did give an honest impression. Relaxed, cooperative.

"How did he seem to you?"

"He seemed to be doing fine. Eager to get back home."

Neal rose from the desk and walked passed the conference room. The kid did even send him a smile. Peter realized he had followed Neal with his eyes and had to cover up for his. He kept his awkward position for a second, as if he was thinking and then rose from the chair, rolling his shoulders as if they were stiff.

"So you took Captain Mitchell out for a beer?"

Yeah. He was one of several soldiers I was considering."

Peter tried to get a view of Neal in vain.

"Mm. When you say 'considering,' what exactly do you mean by that?" What a silly question. He was a federal agent, trained to interview people and that was all he could come up with. Damn Neal.

"We wanted to get a sense of what they were going through. If the reality lived up to their expectations. What exactly are you investigating, Agent Burke?"

"Captain Mitchell was arrested yesterday for the theft of Iraqi antiquities."

"Sorry to hear that."

Neal passed the conference room again, in the other direction and sat down again by her desk.

"So there was nothing particularly special about Mitchell?"

"No. In fact, I'm really sorry I couldn't help you further." She collected her bunch of papers and rose.

"Why the rush?" Peter asked. Not only did she suddenly behave as if she did not want to discuss it further, she would also run into Neal rumbling through her drawers.

"I told you I'm on deadline. Now, if you have no other questions, I'd like to get back to work."

"Wait," Peter halted her. He moved so he more or less blocked her exit. She gazed at him, waiting for a question that never popped up in his mind. Neal sent him one more of his charming smiles and left the area.

"My card," Peter offered. "When you think of something else."

She accepted the card.

"If I think of something else."

Peter nodded his goodbye and left, not sure what he had asked her all the questions he had had in his mind before Neal popped up.


	16. Mozzie

**Mozzie**

Neal had texted Peter where he was and his handler turned up, angry as a bee. He did not stop but just marched by, and Neal tagged along. He listened to Peter muttering about that he would send Neal back to prison if Neal did not do what he was told. He kept quiet while Peter let his steam out.

"What was that about?" Peter huffed. "You had me off my game."

"You told me to watch her reaction. I did."

"By breaking and entering?" Peter growled but Neal kept calm. He had not done anything that illegal.

"Phil let me in."

"Who's Phil?!"

"The guy at the door—" Neal informed him, but Peter held up his hand. "You wanna know what I found?"

"No!"

"She got rattled when she heard FBI," Neal continued anyway. "She went to her desk and locked something in a top drawer."

"Oh, God!" Peter stopped and breathed as if he saw his whole career vanish in front of his feet.

"I didn't steal it," Neal assured his handler. "Photocopied it."

He pulled it out of his pocket and held the folded paper out to Peter, who ripped it out of his hand.

"It's a pawnshop ticket," Neal informed him. "Bet I know what she was pawning."

"No, I didn't see this," Peter told him and crumbled the paper in his hand. He pointed and Neal. "You didn't see this."

Peter marched away and Neal found it best not to follow along this time.

"But I did see it."

And even if Peter had to ignore it, Neal had no such limitations. He brought out the second copy he had made of the pawnshop ticket. From Peter's lessons about what to do and not as a federal agent, he had had a hunch this could happen.

He brought out his phone and called Mozzie. The friend answered.

"Hey, Moz, I got a favor to ask you."

"What's up?"

"Check out a pawnshop ticket for me."

* * *

When Peter came home a movie was on the TV and both women sat in their pajamas petting Satchmo. Peter had never wished more to be invisible. Now he was unwelcome in his own home. El saw him and he waved for her that he would go upstairs but she gestured for him not to. She rose and they met in the small area between the two sets of front doors.

"How is she holding up?" Peter whispered.

"As good as can be expected," El replied. She gave him a look that very much reminded Peter of Neal's puppy-look when he wanted something.

"Do you think we could finish watching the movie?" she asked. Meaning him out of the way.

"Little girl time?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She nodded.

"Yeah."

"Yeah. I'll find something to do," Peter sighed. He was rewarded by a big kiss from his wife.

"Good man."

"That's what I keep telling people."

"Have fun," she smiled at him as she returned inside. What a joke.

What on Earth would he do now? It was too late to spend a couple of hours in the library. He could call Jones to see if he was up for a beer. But what he really wanted was to get Dana out of the house and get his home and wife back. Beers with Jones could not help him with that.

* * *

Neal sat on his bed with Kate's bottle in one hand and browsing a book with maps with the other. The pattern he had brought to life on the label was the New York subway alright, but where to look? He flipped the page and looked at an old map of Newfoundland with someone's route marked out, ending with an X. He turned the bottle. 'Bordeaux', with a big X at the end. And that X marked a place on the map. The circle of a subway station was right in the center of the X.

"X marks the spot. Kate loves the classics." And she had sure loved Indiana Jones. He picked up his phone

"Moz, it's me."

"Yeah?"

"You nearby?"

"Did your suit put a tail on me?"

"What?" As far as Neal knew Peter did not even know what his mysterious friend looked like. "No, look. I think I figured out the map. It's a Bordeaux label. Bordeaux with an X. X marks the spot."

"You know, Kate loves the classics," Moz agreed in the other end of the line.

"Yes, she does," Neal grinned.

"I found a bit of treasure too. On my way to show you."

"Hurry up," Neal demanded, eager to know what he found.

"I walk at a delicate pace." Mozzie was not a guy you hurried that easy. He hung up and when he did that he heard a knock on his door.

"That was fast," he mused to himself. He got to his feet and the knock was repeated. "Yep. Coming," he called as he walked to the door.

"Hey, Mo—" Neal found himself staring at Peter. "My man." Should have known. It had not been Mozzie's way of knocking.

"Expecting somebody?" his handler asked.

"Not at all." Could be called a lie, but not one serious enough to have any value.

"Good," Peter smiled, pushed a bottle of wine in his hand and walked past him into his home.

"Come right on in," Neal offered. He knew Peter had every right to be in his home, but could the man not have the sense to at least act as if he cared for Neal's opinion on the matter?

"Wow, unbelievable," Peter breathed as he watched the view over Manhattan. Neal saw Peter had no less than twelve cans of beer in his hand.

"Last time we had a drink, we made a breakthrough," his handler said as he put the beer in Neal's fridge. "Hoping tonight, we can solve the whole damn case."

Neal looked at the bottle of wine in his hand. Peter did care. He had bought beer for himself and wine to his felon who he knew did not care much for beer. It was a nice touch. No, it was more than that. It was a gesture from someone who knew he walked into someones home, but not because he had the right, but because he sought the company. Neal's company.

Neal brought out glasses, handed Peter an opener and uncorked the wine. They sat down.

"So Dana still at the house?" Neal asked as he poured a glass of wine.

"Yep." Peter opened a can and raised it to a toast. "Here's to freeing Captain John Mitchell so I can go back home."

"I'll drink to that." Not that he minded the company, but because he wanted Peter to be happy. He could tell he was not at the moment.

There was the expected knock on the door. Neal rose.

"I'll get that. It's probably June."

He opened the door but Mozzie was too ready to burst with pride to notice Neal's gesture to keep quiet.

"Photocopy of a pawn ticket, but I got this coin." Then he noticed Neal's look. "What?"

"Sorry, Mr. Haversham," Neal replied. "June isn't here at the moment."

"Oh, well, uh, too bad. Uh. Tell her I look forward to our next round of drinks and Parcheesi." Parcheesi? Not very plausible Moz, Neal thought.

"Yep."

He was eager to close the door and pretend it never happened.

"Hang on a second." Peter's voice from within the room. Neal sighed and kept the door open.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Apparently, I'm interrupting something," Mozzie grinned and was far from natural.

"Yeah," Neal agreed. That was an understatement. Well, it was little he could do about it.

"Who are you?" Peter asked Mozzie as he turned up by his side.

"I'm the neighbor," Mozzie explained. "Dan… te… Haversham. Dante Haversham." Sometimes Neal wondered how Mozzie managed to stay out of prison and this time he asked himself how his friend even managed to survive at all.

"And you're dating June?" Peter asked as if they were mingling at a party and the man he just met was not strange at all. And he had thought that Peter lacked acting skills. His handler almost spooked him.

"Courting," Mozzie corrected Peter. "Courting. What can I say? She likes a little cream in her coffee." Did Moz blush? Oh, my god this just got worse.

"You really wanna keep this up?" Peter asked Neal. What a relief!

"No, I don't," Neal replied, glaring at Mozzie. "You're right. This is—"

"No. I know," Peter stopped him. "How about I just call you Mr. Haversham?"

What? Did Peter just agree to not knowing the name of his mysterious friend? In their contract, there was a paragraph that said that Neal had to give the names of those visiting him, upon demand. Not that Mozzie was a real name, but nevertheless, he had been prepared to keep his part of the deal.

"Come on in," Peter invited.

Mozzie looked baffled and terrified. He took a step through the door.

"Thought you'd be taller," Peter said.

"Me too."

"Well, you're here. Have a drink." Peter patted Moz's back with a grin and walked to the fridge.

Neal put a hand on Mozzie's shoulder, shaking his head. His friend got the message.

"Oh, no. I don't drink."

"Well, you do tonight," Peter insisted.

Great, Neal thought. Mozzie smiled.

"Gin's good," he agreed without hesitation and continued into the room.

* * *

Peter knocked on Neal's door with the bottle of wine he had bought. When there was no reply he knocked again, suddenly worried that the kid would not be at home. He relaxed when he heard a 'coming' from inside. A second later Neal opened.

"Hey, Mo—" Neal halted in surprise. "My man." Nice catch, Peter thought

"Expecting somebody?"

"Not at all." Maybe not, but he had thought he opened the door for someone else, that was for sure.

"Good," Peter smiled and was simply glad that Neal was at home. He pushed the bottle of wine in Neal's hands and walked past him into his home. He knew he took the liberty because he was Neal's handler and the young man was a convict with an anklet. He tried to persuade himself that the kid needed to be reminded of this, but the truth was that Peter could not manage not to spend the evening with Neal. He had been thrown out of his home — temporarily, but still — and he needed someplace sane, someplace where he could control the variables.

"Come right on in," Neal offered behind him and closed the door.

"Wow, unbelievable," Peter breathed as he watched the view over Manhattan. He had not been there since he had given Neal his consultant ID. An amazing place indeed.

"Last time we had a drink, we made a breakthrough," he explained his visit to Neal, filling his little fridge with all the beer he had bought. It was more than he should drink on a night, but it would be long and he was not in his best mood.

"Hoping tonight, we can solve the whole damn case." So I can go home, he thought.

Neal did not argue. He just seemed to accept the intrusion. He brought out glasses, handed Peter an opener and uncorked the wine. They sat down.

"So Dana still at the house?" Neal asked him as he poured the wine. The kid had figured out the real reason for why Peter was there. It was a clever kid. The smartest man he ever met. Of course, he figured it out. It was probably stamped on Peter's forehead.

"Yep." Peter opened a can and raised it to a toast. "Here's to freeing Captain John Mitchell so I can go back home."

It was a good thing to be with Neal. Then he would not get too drunk. Not as drunk as he wanted to be. He was after all the kid's handler.

"I'll drink to that," Neal agreed.

There was a knock on the door. Neal rose.

"I'll get that. It's probably June."

Peter sipped from his beer with the back to the door. He heard Neal open it.

"Photocopy of a pawn ticket, but I got this coin." The mysterious friend. Peter was sure of it. "What?"

"Sorry, Mr. Haversham," Neal articulated. "June isn't here at the moment."

"Oh, well, uh, too bad. Uh. Tell her I look forward to our next round of drinks and Parcheesi."

If he turned and looked the friend might run, might put Neal in trouble, might be in trouble himself. Peter figured if he could handle not arresting Neal for things turning up from his past, he could handle this mystery man too.

"Yep," Neal cut the conversation.

"Hang on a second," Peter demanded and rose, turning towards the door. He saw a short, bald, funny-looking man with glasses. A man who could easily disappear. He understood at once why Jones lost him every time. The man looked like everybody else.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Apparently, I'm interrupting something," the little man excused himself, grinning as if he was nervous.

"Yeah," Neal agreed with a sigh.

"Who are you?" Peter asked.

"I'm the neighbor," the little man improvised. "Dan… te… Haversham. Dante Haversham." He definitely lacked Neal's stunning gift to handle unexpected situations.

"And you're dating June?" Peter asked just for fun.

"Courting. Courting. What can I say?" the man giggled. Peter glanced at Neal. The kid had a smile on his face that was more sheepish that charming for once. "She likes a little cream in her coffee."

Peter turned to Neal.

"You really wanna keep this up?"

"No, I don't," Neal replied without hesitation, glaring at Mozzie. "You're right. This is—"

"No! I know!" Peter stopped him. Tonight he just wanted to relax and have a nice time. "How about I just call you Mr. Haversham?"

He saw Neal staring at him in surprise.

"Come on in," Peter invited.

Mr. Haversham took a step through the door like he was entering a lion's den. Well, tonight Peter would be a nice lion.

"Thought you'd be taller," he commented. He had no idea why, but he had figured the mysterious man to be of his own length.

"Me too," the man replied without looking at him, stiff as if he was made out of wood.

"Well, you're here. Have a drink." Peter felt his gloomy mood leave him and walked to the fridge.

"Oh, no. I don't drink." Smart move, Peter figured, not to risk to talk too much.

"Well, you do tonight," Peter insisted. Though he would not tell either of them, they would have to confess to a great deal tonight before he took any action. He had no wish to be an FBI agent at the moment. He just wanted to have a drink with a few friends.

"Gin's good," his new buddy replied, loosening up as a button had been pressed, and sat down by the table.

Neal sat down on his old spot. He did not look comfortable with the situation, at all.

"I believe you've gin somewhere?" Peter asked him.

"Yeah." Neal rose and took out a bottle and a glass to the mystery man.

"Relax, Neal" Peter encouraged and sat down at his old seat. Neal returned to his chair, but he looked troubled, still.

Peter asked about June, New York, restaurants as they were neutral subjects. Mr. Haversham poured himself a glass of gin and trailed his eyes over Peter as they shared polite pleasantries.

"So you're the famous fed, Agent Peter Burke," the man said at last. It felt as if he just passed a test.

"I am."

"The man who figured out where Kate was when Neal couldn't," the little man grinned at him.

"Yeah. I didn't keep tabs on her, though," Peter admitted. "So I had no idea she had moved when Neal escaped."

"Neither did Neal," the other giggled.

Peter finished his beer and went for a new one in the fridge.

"I don't get it. Girl leaves nothing but an empty bottle behind." He could still not understand it. Neal had told him the story about the bottle but it did not explain why she behaved as she had.

"Least she could do was leave a full one," Mr. Haversham laughed.

"Guys, I'm right here," Neal pointed out.

"Fair enough. Fair enough," Peter agreed.

He noted that Neal had not touched his wine since the man had arrived. Did he feel he had to protect his friend? He had no problem drinking when Peter and he were alone, so yes, probably. He, on the other hand, had a good time. He wished Neal could, too.

"Whoo. Man, look at that view," he breathed. "Is this why you guys do it? Is this what it's all about?"

"It's not about the stuff," the little man objected.

"Moz, don't…" Neal warned. 'Moz'? Was that the man's real name? Probably not a name he would find in any system, or at the man's ID, in case he had one. 'Moz' was however not worried about what he could and could not say.

"It's about doing what we wanna do. Who cares about 9 to 5's and 401 K's? Playing by the rules only makes borders that just take away everything that's good about living life."

"Moz, Moz, you lived in a storage unit," Neal reminded his friend.

"Yeah. But I lived there, man. I lived!" Me Haversham insisted. "Long as I don't have to live under anyone else's time or dime I'm a free man. I can do whatever I want."

"Like going to the pawnshop and getting that coin you have in your pocket?"

Dumbfounded the guy glanced at Neal for help, but there was none to be found. The kid just smiled and made a 'you-made-your-bed'-gesture. Peter laughed.

"Come on. Let's see it." He had no intention to bring any one of them in and he wanted them to know it.

The man Neal called Moz, grinned, dug in his pocket, and threw him a gold coin. Peter caught it. It was beautiful, old, and valuable beyond its weight in gold.

"It's a hell of a thing."

"Islamic dinar from the Abbasid dynasty," Moz told him with certainty. "Last seen in the museum in Mosul."

Everything had a price and Peter knew he had just paid it for a buddy-night with two criminals.

"I really shouldn't even know about this," Peter sighed. He saw that Neal was looking at him. "Alisha's guilty, isn't she?"

"Looks like it," Neal agreed. There was sympathy in his eyes. They had worked together long enough for the kid to know what agony he felt right now.

"I'm holding damning evidence and I can't do a damn thing with it." Peter was frustrated.

"Your rules, Tin Man, not mine." The little guy did not make things better.

"Come on, Peter," Neal insisted. "Give me the coin." Like it would make him feel better. He appreciated the gesture from Neal, though. Somehow he had a feeling he had raised in ranks with Neal this night. Though he still stayed away from the wine, he seemed far more relaxed. Accepting his criminal friend without questions and arrests might have a good side-effect in the long run, but for the moment it was agony to know about the damn coin. He flipped it between his fingers.

"I can see it now. 'FBI agent illegally obtains evidence. News at 11.'"

"That's a hell of a story," Neal nodded in agreement. "Too bad she can't report it."

An idea crossed Peter's mind.

"Maybe she can," he mumbled.

Moz froze in a middle of a move, sipping gin. Neal's eyebrows went up. The wheels in Peter's mind kept spinning.

"This might work," he said at last. It was even all legal.

"What will work?" the Moz-guy wanted to know. He told them what he had on his mind.

He got a big grin from Neal's friend.

"Not bad, Suit. Not bad at all."


	17. Buying gold

**Buying gold**

Neal sat on a chair in the studio waiting for Alisha Teagen. He had told them he had a huge scope about a cover-up in Iraq and everyone seemed eager to get Alisha there as soon as possible. Finally, she walked in, just as stressed and unprepared as Neal and Peter had hoped for.

"We're rolling?" she asked the crew. Oh, yes, they were rolling. She saw Neal. "Oh, hi. Hi. Alisha Teagen."

They shook hands, and he gave her a nervous grin.

"Good to meet you. I'm a huge fan."

"Thank you."

"You look better in person," Neal added to appear to adore her.

"Well, thank you. Okay, you're all miked up," she noted. Neal had given her no chance to come prepared. "All right. Let's get started." She sat down. "Your name?"

"Oh, we'll get to that."

"Just relax. Take a deep breath," Alisha advised him. He was after all supposed to reveal something sensitive. "So why don't we… Why don't we start at the beginning?"

"Okay. Yeah," Neal agreed. "Once upon a time in Iraq, there were two people. One was greedy and a thief. The other was pretty and opportunistic. Together they found a great deal of treasure."

Alisha understood where this was going.

"This is something we should be discussing off-camera," she smiled at him. She probably thought he wanted to blackmail her.

"Wait, no. That's the prologue. I'm getting to the setup. They smuggled that treasure here, went off without a hitch. But they needed a fall guy. Somebody to take the heat off them so they could sell the treasure without interference. That fall guy is a soldier you know. John Mitchell."

If eyes could kill, Neal would be dead. But they could not and he met Alisha's blue steel blue eyes without fear.

"Well. Unfortunately, your story is missing something very important. Proof."

"Oh, I got proof," he claimed and took the coin out of his pocket. "Here. Recognize this?"

She did. No camera could miss that.

"What this story is missing is an ending," Neal continued. "I'm not sure what happens to Mitchell. The outcome of his life it may as well be decided on the toss of a coin."

Neal flipped the coin up in the air and caught it on its way down and put it on the top of his other hand, covering it. "You wanna call it for me?"

"Turn off the cameras," Alisha hissed. Nothing happened. "Turn off the cameras!"

Peter turned up beside Neal and held up his badge.

"Alisha Teagen, you're under arrest," Peter declared. Neal saw Jones and Lauren behind him. Alisha became pale as a ghost. Her eyes darted around the studio. All eyes were on her. Neal felt no pity for someone who framed an innocent man. If her career were over, Neal would not feel ashamed to be the one exposing the reason.

* * *

Peter wandered around in the conference room, passing behind Alisha Teagan's back, while he pretended to read from a file. He wanted to make sure she knew she had no power, no cards to play but information. Her hands fiddled nervously.

"I want immunity," she declared, with a surprisingly steady voice. Peter looked up from the file and stared at her as if he became aware of her presence. He grinned all over his face.

"You're funny."

Her pose shrunk and her eyes when to the table. Peter closed the file and sat down.

"What you get depends on what you give me."

"Aimes looted Saddam's museum. He set the whole thing up. All I did was help him transport it back to the States."

"You were his mule. What was your cut?"

"Well, it doesn't matter. I haven't seen a dime."

"Not even this really old dime?" Peter asked as he pushed the coin across the table. "Prosecution hasn't taken immunity off the table."

"I needed the money," she said in a pitiful voice.

"Oh, I bet. I looked at your portfolio. You lost a lot when the market crashed." She had gone from wealthy to less wealthy, but far from poor.

"Yeah. I lost enough."

Peter waited. She still not had explained how she got the coin.

"Look, I still had access to the gold. So I took some of the smaller pieces and turned them over."

"And when you got scared that you were leaving a paper trail you set up Mitchell as a fall guy."

"I didn't wanna set him up," she claimed. "Aimes did."

"All you did was get the prints and the hat," Peter replied with a stern look. That alone was bad enough, and he wanted her to know it. "What I wanna know is why you melted some of the pieces down."

"He thought if we made it look like most of the gold was gone you wouldn't spend much time searching for it, even after Mitchell was locked up."

What an insane idea.

"Where's the gold now?"

"I don't know."

"He moved it on you?"

"Yeah! I swear, I don't know where it is!"

Perhaps it was true. He browsed the file. Alisha Teagen was an opportunist, which meant she had likely little idea what she was doing and who she was dealing with. Naive enough to be fooled? Maybe. He slammed the file shut.

"Then you're gonna help us find it. You're gonna tell Aimes that the FBI has been poking around. We've been talking to him so he'll believe you."

"He won't trust me."

"He will if you tell him the case against Mitchell is falling apart. And that he needs to unload the gold immediately."

"What if he gets spooked, and wants to wait?"

"You'll have to convince him that you found a private buyer," Peter emphasized every word. "A very rich, very discreet buyer."

Alisha looked terrified, but Peter kept his firm pose. If she was afraid of Aimes, she had to be more afraid of what the FBI could do.

"Will I get immunity if I do?" she whispered.

"We'll see. What is certain, is what will happen if you don't. Then you'll take the fall. And you alone."

Her hands fiddled, and she stared down on the desk.

"Alright, I'll do it. Who's the buyer?"

* * *

Neal grinned all over his face as he swung his jacket on and left the conference room. He loved playing rich.

"So Aimes is willing to meet you at a private gallery later today?" Cruz asked.

"Apparently, I'm a wealthy buyer."

"And this is your car for the day," Jones met up and held up a file with a photo of a small car.

Neal laughed and turned grinning to his colleague to get the real car. He saw Jones' face.

"You… you're not kidding?"

"It's a Mercedes!" Cruz told him as if the brand was enough.

"This isn't even an S-Class," Neal pointed out. "I need to look like I can drop a few million on antiquities. This says, 'Look what I kept in the divorce.'" He handed the file to Cruz.

"You can't make this work? What kind of a con-man are you?" She handed the file back to him. "The Neal Caffrey I did my thesis on could make this work."

Jones looked like he was about to burst out laughing at this. The guy patted him on his back and left. Did they think of it as some form of an ongoing joke to make him work with less than needed just because they knew he was used to better stuff? With this little Mercedes, the whole thing would blow up in their faces. He had to fix something else. As the charming Lauren pointed out, he was a con-man.

He hurried home and shook the shoulder of the sleeping Mozzie on his couch.

"Moz, wake up!"

"Leave me alone!" Mozzie protested, half asleep.

"Come on. Come on, Moz," Neal insisted. "Come on."

He rushed to his wardrobe and brought out clothes that would match the role needed for achieving better transportation.

"Did you draw on my face?" his friend asked, sitting up, still not fully awake.

"What? No! Aimes is meeting with me today. Gotta go in as a serious high roller. Need a car."

"I'll get my Slim Jim."

"No. Can't steal it."

"Yeah. We 'can't steal it.'"

"No. We can't steal it, Moz. Not when it's for work."

"Semantics."

"Perhaps. But one can put me back in prison and the other not. Get in a suit, Moz."

To all luck, there was a limo-cleaning-service just two blocks from June's. Neal and Mozzie walked up to it, very FBI-looking.

"Excuse me," Neal addressed a car cleaner working on a perfect limo for the job. "Could you step away from this car?"

The man shrugged and stepped away.

"Thank you."

A big guy, probably the manager, pinpointed them.

"Yo, you need something?"

"Yeah," Neal nodded and held up his consultant ID. The first time he had used it, and the first time he had used a real ID, too. "Captain told you I was coming, right? Says FBI."

"What're you talking about?" the manager asked.

"Your limo was involved in a 4 18 last night. I'm to bring it to the forensic motor pool," Neal explained, and then yelled to Mozzie who walked to the back of the car. "What's the plate on that?"

"XC7-32W."

"We're cleaning it now," the manager said as if they could not take it before they were done. Neal saw there was a man inside the car polishing the seats.

"Griggs, get this guy out of there."

"I didn't get a call about any of this," the manager protested.

"Beat it," Mozzie ordered the guy inside who took off.

"Is that our vehicle?" Neal asked 'Griggs' who pulled his finger along the inside of the door.

"Whoa," Moz sniffed at his finger. "We've got gunshot residue. Looks like she's been snowing back here."

"How many of your guys touched this?" Neal gave the manager a stern gaze.

"We're a cleaning company."

"Oh, really? Okay. There's two ways we can do this. One, I take this car back with me. No one gets asked any questions. The second way, we assume whatever's in the back seat belongs to one of you."

"Pssh. It's above my pay grade, pal. Take it."

Neal felt sorry for the guy. But he would get the car back.

"Griggs, give him a receipt."

Mozzie stuffed a paper in his hand.

"Say no to drugs, chief."

"Yeah, whatever," the manager muttered.

Moz swung the door open to the driver's seat while Neal got in the back. Now they just had to pick up the others.

* * *

Peter sat in the van with Jones and a few agents in vests.

"Oh, we got a high roller coming through," Jones told them.

A limo stopped, and the driver stepped out. Peter gazed. He knew that little man who walked around the door and opened for the passengers. They stared as Lauren, Alisha Teagen and Neal stepped out of the more than fancy vehicle.

"I thought we gave him a Mercedes," Peter glanced at Jones.

His colleague grinned and shrugged.

"I guess he made it work."

Peter hoped Neal knew better than gain access to that car illegally.

"God, that driver looks familiar," Jones frowned. "Is he one of ours?"

Peter smiled. Of course. Jones had tailed the guy, even seen him up close.

"That's Haversham. A good man."

* * *

"Relax," Neal assured Alisha as they walk towards the entrance of Aimes' gallery. "You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah? You have no idea how dangerous Aimes can be."

"It's just a game." It was. Dangerous as it might be, it helped to think of it as something you did for the fun of it. He did.

"Never let them see you sweat, right?" Alisha hissed as she regretted a million times over that she had agreed to this instead of taking the fall.

The revolving doors to the entrance rotated, and a strong man Neal guessed was Aimes' bodyguard walked out followed by Aimes himself. Neal recognized him from the photos.

"Alisha you look lovely," the man said with a trace of a smile and exchanged kisses with Alisha. She turned towards Neal and introduced him.

"This is the gentleman I was telling you about."

Neal greeted him with a nod.

"This is my business manager," Neal presented Lauren.

"Charmed." Aimes kissed her had without any charm at all in Neal's opinion.

Lauren smiled as if the man was Adonis himself.

"Likewise."

"Come in." He waved for them to follow him inside.

His gallery turned out to be no less than a minor museum except that it was a museum of reproductions mostly since the actual pieces were the valuable treasure of the countries of their origin.

"Enjoy," Aimes gestured proudly for them to inspect his treasures.

Neal took a look at a figure of a bird.

"How long have you been collecting antiquities?" Aimes asked.

"Years," Neal replied. "I also admire the occasional reproduction."

"So you're familiar with the Ptolemaic period, then?"

"I am."

"Shame the Greeks put an end to it," Aimes said as of he would have more to collect if it continued.

"Shame you didn't have a better history teacher." Neal strolled among the display-cases. Focusing on one after another. "Soter's reign over Egypt ended after the death of Cleopatra in the Roman conquest of 30 B.C., not the Greek." He looked up to the group. "Or so I've been told."

"Would you like to see the actual pieces then?"

"I think I already have," Neal smiled and gave Lauren a look. "These aren't reproductions."

"Good eye."

"They've been here all along?" Alisha was baffled.

"I've always believed the best place to hide something is in plain sight," Aimes replied and gave Alisha a concerned look. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course."

Though Neal figured she was far from all right.

"Smile, Alisha. It's almost over," Aimes told her.

His words left an awkward silence in the room.

"Yes," Lauren continued. "Can we move this along?"

She sat down on a bench and opened her briefcase. It was full of money. Aimes stared. Then he took a step back while his bodyguard went forward and pulled a gun. It was trailed on Neal in a second. He hated guns.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's going on?" he said and backed away.

"Don't play games with me. You're with the FBI," Aimes hissed.

Lauren lifted the fake money and pulled out a gun, trailing it at the bodyguard.

"Technically, I'm just a consultant," Neal tried. "She's with the FBI."

She was trained for this and had a weapon. He was unarmed and just a conman.

"Regardless, no need for a fifth wheel," Aimes said, turned and ran out.

"Looks like we have a standoff," Neal noted.

"No, we don't," Lauren disagreed. "Shoot him. Then I'll have you on murder too."

What?! This was not fair. He was supposed to have the same protection as she, though he was not allowed a gun. And she knew he hated guns.

"Go on," Lauren encouraged the bodyguard

"FBI! Gun on the ground!" Jones yelled as he and two other agents burst into the room. "Gun on the ground right now! Hands on your head!"

Oh God, how he loved Jones sometimes. At least when he did not yell that at him but at the one pointing a gun at him.

"Nice bluff," Neal told Lauren who just gave him a stern glare. "I know you were bluffing. Because that's what I would've done." One thing was certain: Lauren Cruz would never see him as anything but an untrustworthy criminal.

* * *

In the meantime, Peter chased Aimes as he exited at the back of the gallery.

"You- Hey! Hey, don't make me shoot you."

Of course, the guy continued to run. As Peter turned the corner, he had to dodge back to cover because Aimes had taken the opportunity the pull his gun and shoot.

"Drop the gun!" he called from his cover. "Jones, I need immediate backup."

Then Peter heard the sound of a car and a crash. He blinked. What happened? He peeked around the corner and saw Neal's limo which Peter vaguely remembered parked a bit further away than it was now. In front of the car, Aimes lay on his back.

Peter hurried up and kicked the gun away and picked it up. Aimes was alive but did not seem interested in moving anywhere. Peter walked to the driver's side, and the window slid down. Moz was drinking sparkling wine, listening to classical music.

"I was never here," he said and let the window slide back up. Peter pattered the car. Good work, Mr. Haversham. The limo backed away.

* * *

Peter met Neal by his car when all the crooks, including Alisha, were in cuffs and placed in the backseat of FBI cars.

"Looks like you can go home again," Neal said with a grin.

So true. He grinned.

"Come, I'll drive you home," he offered Neal. "We'll just stop by and get Mitchell out on the way, okay?"

"Sure thing, Peter."

Peter walked through the front door with John close behind.

"Hi, baby," the young man greeted his wife who flew into his arms.

Peter left the happy couple and went to his wife. She put her arms around him.

"I'm really proud of you," she smiled, glancing at John and Dana.

"Oh, John's free because of you, El," Peter returned the hug. "Yeah, if you hadn't given me that push."

"Well, it was more like a nudge."

"Nudge?"

"Maybe a little love tap," El suggested.

"More like a left hook." At least that was as Peter remembered it.

"Oh, he must be really happy he's going home," Elisabeth said and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"He's not the only one."


	18. Weekend

**Weekend**

It was a sunny Saturday. Neal guessed he should be pleased that Kate's clue led to a place within his radius. But Grand Central Station was not a small place. It was grand.

"Kate leaves you a bottle with a map on it, and this is where it leads us?" Mozzie expressed his frustration. "Grand Central Station?"

"It's something I'd recognize, Moz. Something significant."

"Significant? Grand Central Station!" Yes, it was significant, but not in that way.

"Something familiar," Neal corrected his statement

"She could have sent us anywhere, so she sends us to a place that leads everywhere?" Moz gaggled. Neal did not listen. He had seen something. Something familiar. An X. A metal structure, a pillar, with an X at the end.

"Moz."

The friend did not see it.

"You know, there's a great oyster bar in there—"

Neal jammed the bottle in Mozzie's hands and stepped up in the corner behind the pillar close to the wall where it ended. He felt with his hand in a small space under the X.

"I think there's something in here," he told Mozzie with excitement when he felt a piece of paper in there.

"X marks the spot?" Moz gazed. "Again?"

Neal got a grip of the paper and pulled it out.

"Kate likes the classics."

He sat down with Moz at his side and unfolded the paper. Neal had time to see it was a letter before his friend pulled it from his hands and read it to him.

"'Dear Neal. Heard you're looking for me. Wish I could explain more, but time is not on our side. But you need to stop looking. No one can deny what we have, but it's over. Please move on. Kate.'"

"All this for 'move on'?" He could not believe it.

"Oddly bipolar," Mozzie agreed. "I'd rather have some oysters."

Neal reread the letter. It did not make any sense. And most of all, it did not felt like Kate. It was her handwriting, but it was something about how it was written. And why leave a clue hidden on the wine bottle to tell him this? She had left the clue before she knew he had escaped from prison to find her. She had left it for him to find when he got out. It could not be a 'heard you're looking for me'. Unless she changed the message afterward. It was a possibility. She could have changed her mind.

"You know, your FBI-friend will check your anklet," Mozzie interrupted his thoughts. "And I know you don't want to lie to him. So why don't we go and have some oysters and you can tell the truth?"

"It's Saturday," Neal pointed out. "Why would he care as long as I'm within my radius?"

"Because you're Neal Caffrey, the greatest con-man ever lived."

And because it was Peter, Neal thought. But it was a weekend. No work. Sure Peter could leave him alone at least a little?

"Well, oysters are a little over my budget, Moz."

"Mine too. Who cares? I'll buy."

Mozzie rose and yanked his arm to get him moving. Well, Peter could not put him back in prison for eating for someone else's stolen money, could he? They walked to the oyster bar and ordered. Or rather Mozzie ordered. Neal was gone in thoughts.

"It makes no sense," he pointed out again.

"No, but did you know there are over three hundred varieties of oysters in North America alone? It takes its flavor from the sea, and it tastes different depending on where it came from."

Mozzie handed him an oyster.

"Try this. It's creamy and butter-sweet, with a slight hint of salt."

Neal ate, and it felt like he drank salt water. At once he was back in the real world. He made a face.

"A slight hint you said?"

* * *

Peter walked in Central Park with his wife. The weather was wonderful and they had a lovely very Neal-free day.

They passed a playground where a bunch of little kids ran around, screaming and playing. He saw El watching them and stopped. They had never had any kids and it was years ago they gave up hope to get any. Somehow they had never get things moving to see what options they had. He had his job, El had her own firm. Had they been too busy? Had they missed something important?

It felt like they were complete even if they did not have children. Would they feel the same in ten years when it was too late?

He glanced at his wife. She seemed happy watching the kid's play. Oh, god, what he felt old. She was just a little older than Neal. And Neal felt like a kid compared to this wonderful, intelligent creature. He placed his arm around her shoulders and hugged her.

And here he stood childless, when he had wished for several of them, and his thoughts went to his 'pet convict'. Was he the closest thing to a child they would ever get? A fully grown man who could have been the one charming Elisabeth instead of him?

"What are you thinking of" El asked.

"You don't wanna know."

"Neal?"

Did he say she was smart and a mind reader?

"Yep," he admitted.

"You're watching a bunch of playing kids and you think of Neal?" she laughed.

"It's a long story."

"I believe you."

They continued to walk.

"I'm starting to love him," El admitted.

She must have felt his grip around her shoulders stiffen because she laughed again.

"Not in _that_ way, honey. More like…" She searched for the right words.

"A child?" Peter tried.

"Well, sort of. But no. More like a friend, I would say. Or like a nephew or something. It's platonic anyway."

"But you're far closer to him in age, than me."

El giggled.

"Neal _is_ charming. But if I was interested in his type, I wouldn't have fallen for you, would I?"

She kissed him on the cheek.

Back home he turned on the computer and checked Neal's tracking data for the day. Neal had soon been out for two months and so far he had kept within his radius except for the first time he came to Peter's home. The kid walked a lot, just like himself. The contract stated he was not allowed to take the subway because it blocked the GPS-signal and moved too fast for any reaction to escape attempt. Even with that in mind, Neal walked a great deal. Peter could see he favored streets before others, stopped at certain places. Once he had checked out what kind of places they were and it was nothing odd about them. Food mainly. And clothes and jewelry. But looking was not a crime.

If Neal was planning something, would he see it in the pattern of his walks, Peter wondered. He felt suddenly paranoid and closed the laptop. Just because he wanted the kid around and loved working with him, he could not allow himself to get drowned in searching for clues that he did not know even existed.

"You know," El said behind his back. "I think you miss chasing him."

"Yeah," he nodded, knowing that she was right. "I do. I really do."

"Hon… make sure you don't make something up by mistake, just to get the chance to chase him again."'

He shook his head.

"I sure hope not. I really enjoy working with him, too. I think we just need a good case to work on."

"Anything in your pile?"

Peter nodded.

"NYPD turned a case over to us on Friday that I think could be within Neal's interest."

He handed El the file and she opened it.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"It's not the Dutchman, but it sure has a mystery about it," his wife concluded.


	19. Haustenberg

**Haustenberg**

Peter walked up the stairs to Neal's apartment. He knocked on the door but there was no response. It was Monday morning, no reason for Neal to not be at home. Peter tried the handle and peeked inside. He saw Neal sit outside on the rooftop patio, dressed to leave for work. Peter let himself inside.

No movement from Neal. The kid looked troubled. Peter knocked on the door frame.

"Hey."

Neal looked up, smiled.

"Hey."

Peter walked out to him.

"Have a good weekend?" he asked.

"Nah. Nothing too exciting. I went to the park."

Peter watched the view. Hard to get enough of it.

"Oh, great. Glad you're getting out."

"Coffee?" Neal asked.

"Love to, no time. Got a stolen painting." They had better be there while the owner of the painting was still there.

"It's June's Italian roast," Neal pointed out as if it was rude to the coffee not drinking it.

Peter glanced at Neal. The kid had sure given him a tempting offer. But so could he.

"It's Haustenberg."

Neal's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Haustenberg? Wow." He grabbed the file Peter was holding out to him. "Was it a museum heist?"

Peter served himself a cup of coffee. It was, after all, perfect.

"No, residential robbery," he informed the kid who gave him his second surprised look that morning. He drank the coffee.

"I'd like to meet the person who keeps a Haustenberg over their mantle," Neal told him.

"Me too," Peter agreed.

The troubled look was gone from Neal and he was on his feet.

"So let's go see him."

" _Her_ ," Peter corrected. "One Julianna Laszio."

* * *

As usual, Peter sat behind the steering wheel. Neal did not object. He knew as well as Peter that it was not an option to drive an official FBI car without a valid driver's license. He liked to drive, though. Being a passenger without control had never been his strong suit.

"Love Haustenberg," Neal told Peter. "Which one of his paintings was stolen?"

"This one is called Young Girl with Locket."

"No photograph?" He had not seen one in the file.

"No, but I bet you it's a painting of a young girl wearing a locket."

"You don't get enough credit for your deductive skills."

"It's worth two million and change," Peter told him.

Neal knew that. He knew both the physical and psycial value of art.

"That's nice. Haustenbergs are rare. Not many works made it out of Hungary after the War."

"Yeah, rare can make it valuable," Peter agreed and gave him a stern look. " _Very_ valuable."

"What are you looking at me for?"

"Why do you think?"

"I didn't steal it," he assured Peter.

"I know you didn't steal it," his handler returned. "But you like paintings. I'm worried that if we find it it may be too much temptation for you."

It was a friendly concern. Neal relaxed.

"I can handle temptation," he smiled at Peter. Peter glared back at him. And not on the road. "Wanna keep your eyes on the road?"

The breaks of the car made it come to a stop all by itself when another car slid in in front of them.

"This is a Taurus. The car can take care of itself," Peter grinned. "I'm keeping my eyes on you."

Do you think I will steal a painting while in the car with you, Neal thought?

"The road is important too." Gee, what he wanted to steal that steering wheel from Peter. "Sorry," he called out through the open window.

"No- No, don't apologize," Peter objected. "That was- _He_ stopped."

No use discussing traffic rules with an FBI agent. The car in front of them continued forward and Peter got the car rolling again. Neal reflected on something Peter said before.

"You know I didn't steal it. You checked my anklet?"

"I always check your anklet," Peter returned as if Neal should know this. "I pull a map up on you every day so I can see exactly where you've been. What's so interesting about Grand Central Station?"

So he was still checking. It had been two months and Neal had done nothing wrong whatsoever during that time.

"Oyster bar, it's the best in town." Neal was happy for Mozzie's suggestion. "I stayed within my two-mile radius."

"I wonder if we've been a little too generous on that," Peter muttered.

"Oh, yeah?" The mood from the morning returned. Kate's mysterious message. Peter's constant mistrust.

"What? Are you gonna sulk now?"

"You don't trust me."

"What did Reagan say? 'Trust but verify'?"

"That was also the motto of the Soviet secret police," Neal informed him. From Neal's point of view, you did not need to verify, if you trusted. That was the whole point of trust. But Peter had said 'trust'. It was some form of trust, anyway. Better than nothing.

"Get used to it, comrade," Peter ended the discussion about the anklet.

Once again Peter watched him as if he was the mobile object here.

"Eyes! Road!" Neal called out as another car slipped in before them and their car stopped automatically.

"Let's just recover the painting," Peter suggested.

"Yeah. And _drive_."

* * *

The door was opened by a girl in her early twenties, long blond hair, jeans, simple clothing. A typical woman of her age.

"Yes?"

Peter held up his badge. Neal felt an urge to hold up his the same way but kept from it. It was just an ID, not a badge. Not a certification of justice and power.

"Agent Peter Burke, FBI. This is my consultant, Neal Caffrey."

"Please to meet you," Neal smiled.

She let them in as if they were expected and walked ahead of them upstairs.

"Oh, so the FBI. You're really taking this seriously, huh?"

"We are," Peter confirmed. There were no other adults on the next floor either. "Are you the homeowner?"

"Yes."

So this was Julianna. Peter sent him a glance of surprise. Neal shared the feeling with him.

Julianna continued into the living room dominated by a grand piano. The price range of the house and the furniture of the room spoke of a wealth not shown in her clothing or behavior.

"My parents are dead. I'm over 21, and I was robbed. Any other questions?"

She was used to people not thinking of her as the owner of all this, Neal thought.

"Was the painting insured?" Peter asked.

"No."

No?

"It's worth 2.6 million," Neal informed her and her jaw dropped and she was speechless for a moment. It was obvious that this young woman had had no idea of what she owned. She had had that painting because she liked it and reported it stolen because she wanted it back for other reasons than money. Then she pointed at an empty space over the mantelpiece where a nail sat all by its own.

"That's where it was."

Peter sent him a look. It had actually been over the mantle. Neal's focused on the room, his eyes wandered. He kept his hands in his pockets though. No need to give Peter any ideas.

"Tuesdays I have classes. The instructor let us out early," Julianna told them. "I came in here, and there was this monster here and he shoved me up against the wall."

"He hurt you?" Peter asked.

"Yeah. I hit him in the face. And he said if I did it again, he would kill me."

Neal turned back to the fascinating young woman. She did not seem that terrified thinking of the incident.

"What did you do?"

"I hit him again."

Neal and Peter grinned at this.

"Do you have a photo of the painting? Your report only had a description."

Julianna thought for a second then she nodded.

"Yeah." She left towards the stares.

A man came down from the third floor.

"Can I help you?" he asked when he saw them.

"Oh, it's okay, Gary. It's the FBI," Juliana assured him. "They're here about the painting."

She continued across the landing and disappeared into the other room.

"Oh, of course," Gary gave them a nervous look. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Sure, sure. Were you there when it happened?" Peter did not waste any time.

"No, I was at work at the time. Wish I could be more help." Gary turned to leave in the same breath.

The man was not even down the stares before Peter turned to Neal.

"We looking at an inside job?"

"Thief knew her schedule. Nothing else taken."

"I'd go with that too," Peter confirmed to Neal's delight. "Help Julianna with that photo."

Peter hurried after the man down the stairs.

"Gary, I have a few questions."

Neal's eyes wandered over the room. That painting was probably the most valuable belonging in this wealthy home. Someone knew she had it and knew its value.

Julianna returned.

"Gary is your…?"

"Uncle," Julianna filled in.

"Uncle."

"Will that do?" She handed him a photo.

It was a photo of a stunning woman in her forties and the painting was behind her on the same spot as from where it had been taken.

"Oh, my goodness," Neal expressed at the private photo rather than a simple photo of the missing portrait.

"That's my grandmother, and that's the painting behind her."

"Could be your twin," Neal beamed at her and she returned the smile, flattered.

"I'll take that as a compliment. I was named after her. She raised me. When she died, she left me the house. And the painting."

"What did Uncle Gary think of that?"

Julianna looked at him. She was not about to answer that question. Not very subtle, since she spoke so freely about other things. She smiled and changed the subject.

"You don't look like an FBI agent."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Neal smiled. "What does an FBI agent look like?"

"Um… Him," she giggled and nodded in Peter's direction as he came up the stairs. Yeah, Peter was FBI in person.

"You got the photo?" Peter wanted to know and Neal nodded. "Let's go."

Neal waved goodbye and left with Peter down the stairs.

* * *

Peter felt he had a plausible suspect on his hands. That made him frustrated because in this case it also meant that it would be tough to get the evidence they needed. That meant more paperwork, more legal hocus-pocus and dealing than Peter would like.

"I've never seen a guy lawyer up that fast," he spat his frustration at Neal as they walked down the sidewalk. "I've got that he's a stock trader on Wall Street and that his attorney will answer any further questions I might have."

"So Uncle Gary tips off the thieves, splits the take," Neal speculated.

"More likely, Uncle Gary owes money to somebody and he got tired of staring at 2 million bucks hanging on the wall. Now, he shuts up, we do this the hard way."

"All we need is the name of the guy he's working with, right?" Neal asked as the optimistic kid he was.

"Right," Peter agreed.

"So why don't I talk to him?"

It stopped Peter in his tracks. He turned and glared at the young so-called reformed criminal.

"You?"

"Yeah," the kid answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. But he must have read Peter's face.

"Okay, let me rephrase that," Neal started over. "Since I am a consultant and not technically an employee of the FBI—"

"A consultant on a tenuous probation," Peter pointed out. It made a difference.

"As I'm constantly reminded," the kid returned. "Is there anything illegal about me talking to him?"

Peter considered. Neal was not an FBI-agent, true, but he was connected to the FBI and a criminal.

"Can't threaten him," Peter made clear.

"Don't plan to," Neal assured him at once.

"Or lie to him."

This his con-man did not like but before Neal had formulated a protest, Peter gave him a stern look with his hands on his hips. This point was not negotiable.

"All right. All right, no lying," Neal agreed. "I'm just gonna ask him for the name."

Neal continued down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. Peter was not sure what to think of this. But he had made the rules clear. It was little more than that he could do. He followed Neal to their car.

"Wall Streat, you said?" Neal asked.

"Yeah. Want me to drop you off?"

Neal sent him one of his dashing grins.

* * *

Neal was waiting by Gary Laszio's car when he came out after work. He leaned against the car, appearing to read a paper. As the man passed him without offering him as much as a glance Neal said without lifting his eyes from the paper:

"Tell me, Gary. Does Julianna know you helped steal the painting?"

He saw the other man's shoes stop in their tracks and he felt him staring at him.

"You can't be here. My lawyer was very clear—"

"First of all," Neal interrupted, "hiring a lawyer makes you look guilty."

It was not true. Most people with any money or experience of the bureaucrats hired a lawyer, guilty or not. But it did not matter in this case. He wanted to rattle the man.

"He told me specifically not to talk to the FBI," Gary continued.

Neal nodded. Wise words from his lawyer.

"Do I look like an FBI agent?" Neal asked.

Now the man gazed at him with new eyes. Of course, he thought of him as FBI since they had seen each other when he was in the house with Peter. But now Gary seemed to question if this assumption was right.

"Who are you?"

"Think hard, Gary." Better let him draw his own conclusion. No lies.

The man seemed to think hard.

"Did he send you?"

Neal was dying to know who 'he' was. He rose to his full length, folding his arms. It was the most intimidating pose he could muster.

"What do you think?" he asked as if the answer was obvious. Still no lies.

"God, I knew this would happen," Gray hissed. "What, that whole thing at the house was a setup?"

"How did it go wrong?" Neal wanted to know. "Julianna wasn't supposed to be there. Now she's a witness."

"It wasn't my fault. Her class got out early," the man insisted. "Please don't hurt her."

Nice to hear that he cared for his niece.

"It's not me you need to convince," Neal pointed out. How he loved this, playing with other people's wrong conclusions.

"Tell him—" Gary halted, considering. "Tell him I'll make sure she doesn't cause any trouble."

Not good enough by far. He needed a name. Besides, the real man behind all this could indeed be pissed off and then the FBI needed to be one step ahead to keep Juliana safe.

"She's ready to sit with a sketch artist," Neal made clear. "This is the kind of thing that makes it much harder for him to sell the painting."

"How about—" Gary did seem desperate now. "Here, how about a good-faith payment?" The man fiddled with his wallet. "Here. Here's $300. That's all I got."

"Three hundred? Gary." Really? Neal shook his head.

"All right. You're right, you're right," Gary agreed. "Um… I could write him a check?"

"That could work," Neal nodded. Too good to be true, he thought, when the man pulled out his checkbook and wrote. He glanced at the note he got.

"I'll pass this on," he confirmed to Gary. He would. But not to the one whose name was on it.

* * *

Peter saw Neal grinning all over his face when he came down the sidewalk to where they agreed to meet up.

"What?" he asked the kid, who just kept smiling as proud as proud could be. "What did he say?"

Neal pulled out a folded note from his pocket and handed it to Peter. He unfolded it and stared at the check. Unbelievable.

"He wrote you a personal check to the guy he helped steal his mother's painting?" he asked perplexed. How did the kid do this?

"He was very insistent," Neal replied, still glowing with pride. Peter sent him a glare.

"No threats, no lies," the kid assured him. "I let him do all the talking."

The kid may not have lied or threated Gary, but he knew Neal. He had a way of making you believe he said things he never had.

"I'm calling this a gray area," Peter told Neal. That meant it was not something he would do a habit of using. He did not like gray areas. Gray areas could soon turn to something on the other side of the law. He chuckled when he read the name.

"Gerard Dorsett."

"You know him?" Neal asked.

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "Yeah, he's a bad guy."

A really bad guy. Not the kind of guy he figured Neal usually had dealt with, though they were in the same business. He pocketed the check.

"So I figured," the kid confirmed. "Hey, what about Julianna? He figures out she's talking to us, then—"

Neal may not have made acquaintance with many really bad guys in his career, but he knew what they could do alright. He as not that young and naive.

"Let's catch the bastard before that happens," Peter suggested.


	20. Gerard Dorsett

**Gerard Dorsett**

Peter knocked on the doors to the closed art gallery. A beautiful young brunette approached on the other side, smiled and let him in.

"Hi, Peter, what brings you here?" Taryn Vandersant greeted him.

"Haustenberg."

"Yes?"

"Has anyone been here, wanting to sell one?"

"Actually, yes. Yesterday. Dorsett. I've been buying from him before."

"Girl with a locket?"

"It's stolen, isn't it?" Peter nodded. "I thought so."

"What did you say to him?"

"You don't say no to a man like him," she replied with a shiver. "I said I should return to him if I found a client interested. What do you want me to do?"

It was an eagerness in her voice.

"Do?"

"You want to catch the guy, don't you? I can get him here, and you can arrest him. And me to, to make sure Dorsett doesn't know I set the trap."

"It's dangerous, Taryn. Why would you want to do that?"

"I deal with art, Peter. Though I love it, it's hardly what you can call excitement in your life. Besides, men like Dorsett…"

"Alright," Peter's mind worked fast. "Set up a meeting with Dorsett tomorrow. Tell him you've got a buyer."

"He'll smell an agent, Peter."

"I'm not sending in an agent," Peter grinned. "I'm sending Neal."

* * *

Peter picked up Neal on his way to the office. As he drove he called Jones.

"Gerard Dorsett has the painting," he told him and Neal who sat beside him. "Jones, check with the other units. He's got fingers in lots of jars. Maybe someone got him on tape."

"I will," Jones returned.

When they stepped out of the elevator they walked straight to the conference room.

"Yeah, we got him. We've been sitting on him for two days," Jones confirmed showing surveillance footage on the screen. "They were going to every high-end gallery in Manhattan offering the Haustenberg."

Peter knew Dorsett from before, but he had a large guy with him.

"Who's that?" Peter asked.

"The big guy? Joshua. Ex-military, the muscle who stole the painting."

Jones sure was good at his job, Peter reflected. It has been less than an hour since he made the call to Jones. The big guy had a large bruise in his face.

"Julianna wasn't kidding about the punch," Neal noted who had seen the same thing.

"The girl has an arm," Peter grinned.

"And the other guy, that's Dorsett, French expat," Jones told Neal.

"What's he into?" the kid wanted to know. "Besides shaking down stockbrokers?"

"High-end loan sharking," Peter answered. "Although calling him a loan shark is like calling Oedipus a mama's boy. He makes questionable loans with big corporate money. Get behind on your payment, he'll firebomb your office."

"Ouch," Neal frowned.

"The good news is, you get to meet him." Neal's head turned at once. "Tomorrow."

"How did you arrange that?" the kid wanted to know.

Peter saw who was coming into the office. They smiled at each other.

"I set it up," the charming brunette said and she got Neal's attention quicker than Peter had when he told him about the next day's event. Not only that, the young man seemed to be totally engulfed. And she in him.

"Neal, this is Taryn Vandersant. She's a buyer at the Lambert gallery and is nice enough to help us out on this one."

"I convinced Dorsett I have a wealthy client who's very interested in the painting." She winked at her new admirer, meaning, he was the client.

"How much is he asking?" Neal asked without taking his eyes from her and took the opportunity to walk a few steps closer.

"Hundred-thousand."

Peter watched the young couple and wondered what on earth it was that made Neal that special in the eyes of women. The kid was young, charming, and smiling, sure, but she had eyes for nothing but Neal the second she met his eyes. Most young men did not have that power. He sure had not when he was in Neal's age.

"We've arranged to have the exchange happen at the gallery." Peter realized he talked without anyone's attention.

"Neal!" The kid turned his head. "Jones, let's get her prepped."

He saw that Neal's focus was back on Taryn. Jones and the rest of the team members left the room and Taryn smiled towards Neal.

"This should be fun," she winked and left.

Peter could nothing but stare. This was unbelievable.

Neal turned with a wide smile on his face and saw the look on Peter's face.

"What?"

"Have you ever met a woman who didn't…?"

Neal got serious at once, nodding.

"Brittney. Brittney Nicole."

Good, Peter thought. At least one.

"In second grade," the born charmer added. "I had a gap in my teeth."

* * *

Back home Neal focused on Kate's letter again. It had to be a secret message in there and it was not likely written in lemon juice again. He folded the paper back and forth to create new words, new meanings. The sheet of paper was soft and crumpled by now.

Then he saw something. The first, third and fifth rows were sticking out further to the left and right than the rows in-between. He folded the paper so only the ends of those three rows were visible.

Then he read three words: Here, Friday, noon.

Neal grinned all over his face.

"All right. Kate loves the classics," he mumbled to himself.

It was Tuesday. Nothing to do but wait. And hope that he could be by Grand Central Station by Friday noon. Had she been there waiting for him every Friday since he got out? Or did she somehow kept tabs on him? He had to get some excuse to not be at work so he got get there this Friday. Or should he tell Peter? No. This was his girlfriend and he was doing nothing illegal. It was even within his radius. Peter had told him what he thought about the situation. Kate had dumped him.

Kate had turned up four months before his release and told him she would leave him. She had moved out and left him a bottle. But he was expected to find it after four months when he got out, not one and a half months later when he escaped.

What would have happened if he had had to stay the next four years in prison instead? Kate had a plan. Now he was on schedule again, but with an anklet. Neal was certain someone was using Kate to get to his money, to his stolen loot. The things Peter suspected he had taken but never could prove.

No, he could not bring Peter into this unless he absolutely had to. He would gladly go to prison if it kept Kate safe, but he would not go back before he knew that she was.

* * *

Early the next morning Peter drove Neal to the Lambert gallery. Peter needed to check that the surveillance was all in place and left Neal on his own. He saw Neal wander off with his hands in his pockets. Did the kid start with that after he had frisked him on that early assignment? Peter was not sure. Was it Neal's way to tell him to relax, that he could handle temptations? Peter shrugged it off and took a tour through the gallery. His crew was almost done.

He found Neal study a so-called artwork. It was bigger than him, so there was no need for Neal to keep his hands in his pockets for that reason.

"That's a big load of laundry," Peter mused and focused on his cameras.

"It just sold for a hundred and twenty thousand," Neal told him.

Peter swung around.

"What?"

He leaned closer and stretched out his hand to make sure it was nothing but cloth. Neal pushed his hand back.

"Can't do that!" the kid hissed at him like he had put a fingerprint on the Mona Lisa.

"What?" It was just a pile of laundry tied together to a… block of laundry.

"You can't put a price on art," Neal claimed.

"No, you can't," Peter agreed. "Which is why I think 2.6 is a little steep for the Haustenberg."

"You're not a fan of Haustenberg?"

Neal sounded surprised. And chocked. Peter saw him stare as if he had cursed in a church.

"Ehhh… I don't know, I…" Was he supposed to say something smart about art here? Did he just feel like a fool in front of Neal for not like a pile of laundry and Haustenberg?

"It's a little cartoony for my taste," Peter answered truthfully.

"Okay, you're a philistine," Neal returned, dead serious. Yeah, Neal knew art and it was important to him in other ways than just forging it and steal it, Peter had guessed that long ago, but still… Someone had bought a block of laundry for a hundred and twenty thousand!

"Yeah, yeah. I'm the crazy one." He turned to the guy fixing the last camera up in the ceiling. "You all set?"

"All set," he replied as he stepped down from the ladder.

Taryn appeared in the entrance to the room.

"Well, let's get wired," she said looking at Neal as if she was on her way to a first date with him.

Neal gave him a look.

"Tell me you're not trying to get me a date," he mumbled.

Taryn had left the room again.

"Why not? You two were flirting."

"I've got Kate."

"No, you've not," Peter pointed out. "And no, I've _not_ arranged a date."

* * *

Taryn was a slender, beautiful woman by all means in Neal's opinion. But when partly undressed to get the wires and microphones in place her charm faltered some. She knew she was good looking, which made flirting less fun. It was more interesting when it did not turn out to a watch-me-I'm-good-looking-contest. It was as if she expected him to look as much as he could and she did not mind.

"A hundred grand in cash, that's a lot of money," Taryn commented. "Tempted?"

Neal glanced at her as he buttoned up his shirt. It was as if they got dressed after sex they never had.

"Why would you think that?" Neal asked in return.

"Peter warned me about you."

He should have asked Peter what he told her.

"Warned you? Sounds ominous."

"Does it?"

"Yeah."

"Is it true you just got out of prison?"

She knew that and still flirted? Was she one of those writing him a fan-letter, too?

"Do I look like I just got out of prison?"

"He said you'd do that."

"What?"

"Redirect."

Neal gave up. He was not interested in Taryn. He did not care what she thought about him. And she already knew more than he wanted her too anyway. He put his suit jacket on.

"Yes, I just got out of prison. Yes, Peter is the guy who put me there. And yes, I'm tempted."

"Is it true you escaped for a girl?"

"Some people think I'm a romantic."

"Did she?"

Now, Kate was not something he wanted to discuss and he cut this one short.

"I'll let you know."

* * *

Neal followed Taryn as she walked on her high heels to the door to meet Gerard Dorsett and Joshua.

"Good to see you again," Dorsett greeted the woman and smiled.

"Good to see you," she returned and looked like she was about to give him a hug but had second thoughts. She turned and walked ahead of the two men into the gallery and introducing Neal:

"As I said on the phone, this is Mr. Devore."

"Call me George."

Neal played his part as a wealthy alpha male. And Dorsett did not seem to like the competition.

They walked into a back room of the gallery where Neal was handed a bag. He pulled the painting out of it. It was a marvelous piece of work and Neal felt that awe he often did when he had the chance to hold a painting of a master.

"It's smaller than I expected," he smiled.

"Have you seen the Mona Lisa?" Dorsett asked. "It's tiny."

Neal gazed at the crook. Of course, he had seen the Mona Lisa. And 'tiny' was not a worthy word for a painting by Leonardo da Vinci no matter the size of the canvas.

"Could I see the money, please?" Dorsett continued.

Taryn opened a briefcase full of money on the table, delivered by the FBI just before their meeting. She showed the contents to Joshua and Dorsett.

"I'd like to authenticate it." It was not a question. She took the painting out of Neal's hands.

"You two have known each other for a long time?" Dorsett pried.

"We've been friends for…" Taryn was unprepared for the question and searched for Neal's help. "How long has it been?"

"Years," he finished, casually.

"Beautiful people are never just friends," the French man objected.

"George has a girlfriend," Taryn stated. Neal watched her. She was uncomfortable with the conversation.

"Again, monogamy is the great casualty of beauty."

Neal turned towards the man and saw a chihuahua who thought of himself as a bulldog.

"Not always," he assured the lapdog.

"Please…" the man grinned back. "We use the expression 'butterfly' for a man who flits from flower to flower. A man such as yourself could be quite a successful butterfly."

"We consider butterflies weak, delicate creatures."

"But flap their wings and they can set off hurricanes."

What an annoying little man, Neal thought.

"That's beautiful. You should write a book. Could we…?"

"Close the doors, please," Taryn said focusing on the painting.

"I have a girlfriend myself," Dorsett continued talking as he pulled the big door closed.

"Is she faithful?" Neal asked to be polite.

"She's French. I try not to think about it."

The man lingered by the door a moment and then returned to the table.

"Brigitte arrived last night. And I shouldn't leave her alone in a new town for long. Perhaps we could hurry."

It was something in his voice, and the way he moved, Neal noted. Something had changed. And he and Taryn stood between Dorsett and Joshua. Not a position he favored.

"Of course," Taryn agreed. "Lights, please."

Dorsett closed the main lights in the room, leaving them in the blue light of Taryn's lamp and the table lamp.

"I've got fluorescing cadmium green and azurite blue. That puts the paint composition pre-1960."

Then Neal heard a sound he hated. One of guns drawn. Dorsett and Joshua both pointed their weapons at them.

"Perhaps you can explain why there are people signaling each other outside?" the tiny lapdog barked. Though now armed.

Taryn raised her hands but Neal kept cool. He was the alpha here, not this little man.

"Who are they?" Dorsett demanded.

"If you brought the FBI into this—" Neal began.

"It was not me!"

"I told you to keep a low profile," Taryn reprimanded him.

"You were careless," Neal continued, glaring at him. "You've been flashing this painting all over town. They followed you here."

He could see Dorsett was not sure what to believe.

"Something is not right here," he hissed.

"You're damn right it's not," Neal agreed.

Dorsett kept pointing his gun at them as he rounded the table and flipped the lid to the briefcase shut.

"For my time and inconvenience." He grabbed it and left through the other door of the room as Joshua returned the painting in the bag and followed close behind.

Before Neal could stop her Taryn hurried after. He heard Peter's voice down the corridor yelling orders to his crew. It seemed as the two crooks had slipped through. They rounded a corner and met him.

"You okay?" Peter wanted to know at once.

"We're fine," Taryn returned.

Relived, Peter scanned around and called out to one of his men.

"Arrest them," his handler pointed at him and Taryn. "Arrest them. We have to keep their cover. Handcuff them, read them their rights, everything."

The agent showed them out through the back door and up to one of the FBI's cars.

"Hands on the car," he ordered and Neal placed them on the roof while Taryn got her hands cuffed on the back. She seemed to enjoy it. Neal heard the fuss behind his back as the FBI searched for Dorsett and his muscle. Peter cursed.

"Put your hands behind your back," the FBI agent 'arresting' them instructed and he did as he was told. The man pushed him up against the car. Neal heard the sound of cuffs opening and he embraced himself for something he had hoped never to experience again. Cuffs were bad enough but behind the back left him in the hands of others. Not everyone was like Peter and Jones when he was arrested for the first time. And even with people he felt safe with it was unpleasant.

He caught the eyes of Taryn who looked at him as if he was a superstar.

"Things always this interesting when you're around?" she asked.

Peter pulled him by his arm.

"Come on! You're under arrest."

Neal got shoved into the backseat by a frustrated Peter who slammed the door shut without giving him a second thought. It was no harm done. He could handle it. He sat up on the seat where he had fell over, unable to keep his balance when he got pushed inside.

Peter let his bad mood pass to him. It was somehow good to see that even Peter could be less respectful, too, for a moment. Yet Neal was glad that it was he and not some first time offender who probably would have shit his pants being treated like that.


	21. The Locket

**The Locket**

"So how upset were they that you lost the hundred grand?" El asked. They had met up for a lunch together and walked back to Peter's office. He had been sitting in a meeting with angry and frustrated people all morning.

"'Upset' is a bit of an understatement," Peter sighed. "They've started an administrative inquiry."

Peter saw the sudden worry in his wife's eyes.

"Everything will be fine if I recover it—." He squeezed her hand. "When I recover it."

"Well, the good news is Neal didn't take it," El told him.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. He became subject for an inquiry and Neal did not steal easy money. "This is progress."

Had the kid not taken them because he thought he would get caught, or because he had not had a chance? Or because it was too easy? Or because he simply did not want to? He had not run away with Barelli's Bible. It had been two months and not a single thing to blame him for.

"Do you think he had anything to do with it?" Elisabeth must have seen a troubled look upon his face.

"No. But…" Peter hesitated, finding words for his thoughts. "The thing about Neal… nothing is ever what it seems. The guy is a contradiction. He's obsessed about Kate but you should have seen him flirting with this girl." Peter knew he was not much of a romantic guy, but how could he flirt with other women than the one he claimed to truly love?

"Honey, that's who Neal is. That's never gonna change." El hugged his arm. "That's what I love about you so much."

"What? That I lost all ability to flirt when we got married?"

She laughed.

"Honey, it was even questionable then."

"It was," Peter agreed with a grin. But he had caught the best woman of them all.

"Who's the new girl?"

"Taryn Vandersant."

"Mm. Don't know her."

"She's a buyer at the Lambert gallery. She's beautiful. Seems nice."

"Well, if Neal is interested, you should encourage it."

Peter stared.

"Encourage it? I need that like a hole in the head."

"Honey, if he falls for the new girl, he might actually stop chasing Kate."

Well, that would indeed be progress. He was sure Neal had not given up the search. Neal just kept him out of the loop since he had denied the kid to go to San Diego.

They said their goodbyes and Peter walked back to the office.

On the way in he met Neal, also returning back from lunch. He had not had a chance to have a proper talk with him about that fake arrest. When they got the elevator for themselves he took the chance.

* * *

"Are you okay about yesterday?" Peter asked him out of the blue.

"How do you mean?"

"I know you don't like cuffs."

There was an apologetic tone in his handler's voice.

"You were kind of pissed off," Neal pointed out.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "I know that too."

Neal smiled at the unspoken apology he wanted to read into it.

"It was part of the plan, Peter," he assured him. "Don't worry. But I think Taryn enjoyed it more than me," he added with a grin.

The elevator doors opened and they stepped out and continued into the office.

"You and Taryn were getting along good yesterday."

Neal got the idea where that statement from Peter was going.

"She's not my type."

"What? Not your-?" Peter glanced at him as if he should fall for any beautiful woman. "Why isn't she your type? She loves art, she looks like Lara Croft in khakis."

And loved to show off her beauty, and be cuffed. This was just unbelievable. Yesterday Peter assured him that he was not trying to get him to date Taryn.

"Really? Does she bake cookies for orphans too?"

"She does," Peter replied without blinking. _And you asked me how to lie, Peter,_ Neal thought. _You're pretty good at it on your own._

"I get it. Meet a nice girl, maybe settle down." They walked up to Peter's office and the conference room.

"Simplify my life, probably save yours," Peter muttered.

"You're lying about the cookies," Neal claimed.

"Prove it."

Neal was about to tell his handler to stay out of this part of his life when he saw an elderly man in an old-fashioned suit and a grim face sit at the end of the conference table.

"Who's that?" he asked instead.

"Curator," Peter replied. "From the Channing Museum."

Peter was about to go in when Neal halted him.

"Wait," he whispered. "Why is he here?" Neal could think of a reason or two, and if so, he wanted to be prepared.

"The Haustenberg," Peter whispered in return. Neal relaxed. "He says it belongs to them." Oh, it that so. Well, he was pretty sure who it belonged to, and it was not the Channing Museum.

"Lose the hat," Peter hissed as they continued into the room.

* * *

Peter and Neal joined the other team members and the curator at the table, making the group complete.

"Welcome to the FBI, Mr…" he lingered on the name since the phone call he had got from Reece had only stated his title and not his name.

"Walter," the man replied without a trace of a smile and intention to rise to shake Peter's hand.

"I'm Special Agent Peter Burke."

"So I'm told," he replied. "Repeatedly. By the others around this table. Since I arrived. Good to finally see you here and that you put some effort into retrieving our painting."

Peter let the comments pass and sat down. Neal took the seat between him and Jones.

"You say the painting belongs to the Channing Museum."

"It does." The curator passed him a copy of an inventory slip.

"How come the Channing didn't report it missing?"

"We did report it when it was stolen in 1967."

1967 Peter thought. Julianna could not have had anything to do with it. She was not even born then. Her grandmother was another story. To Peter's annoyance, Neal raised his hand a second to call the curator's attention.

"I have a question. The painting was stolen in '67, but it's not listed on the Art Loss Registry."

"The Registry was established in 1990," Walter cut back.

"'91, actually," Neal shot in return. "You could have re-filed the claim."

The man was not used to being talked back like that, it was obvious to Peter. And not by young brats like his pet convict.

"I'm sorry, you are who?"

"Neal Caffrey," Peter informed him before Neal had the chance. "He's one of our art consultants."

"Caffrey..." the curator repeated. "Not familiar with that name."

"It's probably for the best," Peter muttered.

"You're an expert on Haustenberg?" Walter gave the young smiling man a skeptical look.

"All the late European post-impressionists," Neal assured him.

To Walter's credit, he accepted the statement that he was an art expert and passed the kid another copy of the inventory slip.

"I authenticated Young Girl with Locket myself when it first entered our collection. I'll agree it's an excellent work. A bit sentimental for my taste but the Matisse influence is apparent."

Peter knew a challenge when he heard one and wanted to leave the room right away. He saw Neal grin back at Walter and knew what was coming.

"Considering Matisse was a fauvist, I wouldn't agree at all. Unless you're talking about his early work. If you are, you're just wrong."

Obviously, Neal passed the test because Walter did actually smile.

"We have reason to believe this was taken in a residential robbery," Peter turned the focus of the conversation back to the crime.

"What happened to the painting when it was taken from my museum is not my concern," the curator slammed back. "Now, if someone elected to buy stolen property I believe that is a crime."

"We also have reason to believe the resident of that home had that painting in good faith," Peter continued.

"As I said, agent, that is none of my concern. If the painting is recovered, we will claim it."

* * *

"I don't like it," Neal told Peter the moment they were alone in his office. "That painting belongs to Julianna."

"Not if it's stolen," his handler replied.

"I know, but they didn't re-filed the claim, the painting doesn't mean anything to them. It does to her."

"Neal, we have laws and rules. We can't base our work on what we fancy or not. We have to follow the law and not favor single individuals."

Sometimes Peter was so predictable it was boring.

"Yeah, and I'm still in prison."

"You _are_ still a prison inmate," Peter pointed out. "And you did get four more years for your escape, no matter reason for your escapade. The same laws apply to everyone. That's how a safe and civilized society is built. You can trust a fair treatment no matter who you are."

"All I say is that the reason that I'm here with you in your office right now is because you favored a single individual."

His handler needed to be a bit provoked to get his vision widened.

"Within the boundaries of the law. And if you break our agreement—"

"You'll slap the cuffs on me and take me back to prison, I know." It was a futile argumentation and Neal knew it. "Does your old promise still remain by the way?"

"What promise?"

"That if I go back to prison, you'll take me there? Just you and your cuffs, remember?"

Peter's eyes narrowed.

"What are you up to now, Neal?"

Neal juggled his rubber-band ball and put on his most innocent smile just to tease Peter.

"Nothing. I just want to know. It's within the boundaries of the law for you to grow tired of me and put me back."

"I'm not growing tired of you. Not yet at least. And yes, that promise still holds. Within reason. If you decide to run, I can't guarantee I'll be the one catching you."

 _Oh, yes, you will_ , Neal thought. Peter was the only one who knew him well enough to know where to look for him. And when they worked together like this, he became even more certain. But it worked both ways too. Neal learned Peter's way of thinking too.

"Oh, here she is," Peter said and Neal turned to see to. Julianna came through the doors and was escorted towards Peter's office by Jones.

"Pleased to see you again, Miss Laszio." They shook hands and Peter offered her a seat. Her eyes trailed to Neal.

"Hi." He smiled at her. She sank down in the chair offered and Neal sat down on the windowsill, staying in the background. He was well aware that his anklet was visible when he was sitting, and where he was he could not hide it under a table. But the truth was, he did not care. He could handle it. It was no longer something anyone could use against him.

"I came as fast as I could. What's up?"

"Do you know how the Haustenberg came into your grandmother's possession?" Peter asked straight to the point.

Julianna's pose and tone were defensive. With every right, she felt her ownership of the painting questioned.

"She brought it with her from Hungary when she came to this country after the War. Why?"

Jones put his head through the door, interrupting.

"Agent Burke, got a question for you."

"Yeah," Peter sighed and gave Julianna a nod. "Excuse me." He rose. "Play nice, kids."

Neal watched Peter leave with a smug smile. The second the agent was out of the room he was down from the windowsill.

"What's going on?" Julianna wanted to know.

Neal sat down on Peter's desk and gave the girl a smile as he looked at her.

"You're not a very good liar," he told her, getting straight to the point, just as Peter. "Your grandmother stole the painting."

"Why would you say that?" she asked in return without a hint of guilt or fright. After all, she had fought the man who broke into her home.

"She never had it insured. That was my first clue."

"Is this like a good-cop, bad-cop thing?" She leaned forward. "He takes a call, you wink at me."

"If we get the painting, it's going back to the Channing unless you give us a good reason to keep it away from them."

She just glanced at him, not playing ball at all. Neal smiled. She was cautious and he like that.

"Tell me a story," he encouraged her. "How did she take it? Just hypothetically."

"Hypothetically?" He nodded. "A little black dress, a laced bottle of whiskey and a horny Irish security guard," she told him with a grin.

"Why did she do it?"

The grin disappeared from her face. Without moving her eyes from his she pulled out a locket from inside her top and held it out to him, keeping the chain around her neck.

Neal blinked.

"That's the locket. Your grandmother is the little girl in the painting."

She did not reply. Just put the locket back together with all the other trinkets around her neck. She sighed. They both knew it did not qualify her to get the painting back. Not legally. But as Peter had pointed out, Neal was an optimist.


	22. Brigittes

**Brigittes**

When Peter returned to his office Neal met him outside.

"How's it going in there?"

"It's fine," Neal assured him "Any luck on Dorsett?"

"No," Peter sighed. He had noted the kid's change of subject but let it be for now. "Assuming you just walked with a hundred grand in cash and the painting, what do you do?"

"Go to ground till things cool off."

"Where do you go?" Peter wondered. Neal did not have an obvious answer. "Dorsett said something about having a girlfriend."

"Brigitte."

"Yeah. How many Brigittes came in from France last night?"

"I'll get a list," Neal moved towards the stairs. "Or rather, I'll ask Jones, since I don't have that clearance. Peter, don't you think it's time-"

"No, I don't. Come back in three years and ten months and ask me then."

"Do you mean I can work for the FBI when I'm released?"

Pleased, Peter saw glitters of hope in Neal's eyes.

"I didn't say that," he replied but felt it was too harsh. He wanted nothing more than have Neal around. But it was too far ahead to make such plans. "Lets' see when we get there, right?"

Neal grinned and disappeared towards Jones' desk. Peter walked into his office and Julianna.

"That painting belongs to me and my grandmother before me," she stated.

"I understand."

"But that doesn't mean you'll return it to me if you recover it, does it?"

"No. I'm sorry."

He got a glare from the young woman reflecting no understanding whatsoever.

"Can I leave?"

"Of course you can. I'll keep you posted."

She rose.

"Goodbye, Agent Burke." She said it with a tone as if she wanted him out of her life forever, which was probably just what she wanted.

"I follow you out."

He did, but the young woman could not have cared less.

"Take care, Julianna."

When he returned into the office Jones jabbed a list on a clipboard into his hands.

"Brigittes as requested."

Peter saw a list of about twenty names. Then he saw it was the first page out of two and the second page was just as full.

"Accounting middle names and spelling variations a lot more than I thought," he admitted.

His team gathered around him.

"Discount connecting flights," Neal suggested.

"And women over fifty," Peter added and met Neal's gaze. Jones stared at him, too. So he had presumptions but… "Tell me I'm wrong."

None of them protested.

"Well, that leaves seven," Jones concluded.

"All right. So let's pull in some teams and everybody take a Brigitte."

"We'll take the girl staying at the Gansevoort," Neal pointed at the list as if he had just waited for it. Peter glared. What was the kid up to now?

"That's where I'd stay," Neal explained. He looked innocent enough. Didn't he always?

* * *

Though Neal had suggested the location, he did not fancy sitting in the car watching the fun. It was even harder than in the van to sit still. In the car, he did not have to fight claustrophobia, true, but he saw people doing all the things he wanted to do and could not.

He ripped a page from an old newspaper, shaped it to a square and folded himself a crane to keep his mind and fingers occupied.

"You'd think they'd have a satellite for things like this," he said. He had seen enough movies to believe that sitting in a car surveying people was utterly outdated.

"Only thing a satellite is gonna tell us is that he's not on the roof," Peter pointed out. "This is old school."

"'Old school'."

"Will you relax? Do you meditate?"

"No."

"Really? You look like a guy who meditates."

What does a guy that meditates look like when he is not meditating, Neal wondered. Peter opened a lunch box and brought out a zip bag with two sandwiches in.

"Sandwich?" he proposed.

A whiff of onion and mustard hit Neal's nose like a hammer.

"What is that smell?"

"It's deviled ham," Peter answered and held out the bag to him, offering him one. Neal stared at Peter. Was he for real? Deviled ham was not food for a closed vehicle! Obviously, his handler thought so and took a huge bite.

Neal was fed up with it all. At least he could listen to something else than baseball. He switched the channel on the radio.

"No, wait. Go back to the game," Peter protested.

"No, I called it," he grinned.

"You're just touching buttons, that's not calling it."

"What are we, twelve?"

"I guess we are. When we're in your car, we can listen to your station."

"I don't have a car." So he would sit with Peter's baseball games every time they did surveillance from the car. It had a depressing feeling to it.

"Poor life choice."

Neal sighed and Peter switched back.

"And we're back at the game!"

Neal twisted his origami crane between his fingers. He looked past Peter out onto the outdoor restaurant outside the hotel. Peter saw him looking.

"What do you think you can afford in that place?"

"Spot me a twenty."

"Why don't you use the new Gold Card?" Peter replied with a smirk.

"You know about that?" Neal laughed embarrassed. He was not supposed to have it. But, he had not kept it secret. Just not told Peter about it. They shared a grin.

"Keep it. Makes it easier for me to know what you're buying." Gracious of you Peter, Neal thought but kept looking out on the women. And a possible Brigitte with a friend. Peter saw his look.

"All right, go. But no shenanigans! You've got ten minutes. And keep your phone on."

Neal placed the crane on the dashboard in front of Peter.

"That's for you." He stepped out of the car. 'Shenanigans'? This was a day for old school indeed.

* * *

Peter inspected Neal's paper bird. How could a guy with the energy of a squirrel have patience enough to fold one of these? But Neal was a contradiction. He put the bird back on the dashboard. He ate his sandwich, listened to the game and kept an eye out for Dorsett. It was not that bad to be alone. No one complained and no one touched the radio.

He glanced out over the patio of the hotel. He saw Neal sit by himself with a glass of wine. That was another thing that fascinated him. Officially, Neal did not have much money. He got a small paycheck every month to cover the basic needs. The money for the rent went directly to June. Yet, Neal spent money on wine. Perhaps Neal used some secret holdings. As long as the kid was discreet enough about it to not cause suspicions, Peter could be decent enough not to pry. No, it was not a matter of decency. It was him hoping to keep Neal out of prison because he liked working with him. Because Neal made a difference. And he preferred to have Neal out and other crooks behind bars than the other way around. So he was not going to pry as long as Neal kept a low profile.

"Hey!" Neal popped up by his open window.

"What?"

Was he back before ten minutes had passed even? Neal gestured towards two slender, blond women standing on the other side of the street, by the edge of the restaurant. They both winked at Neal.

"What do you think?" the Kid asked with pride.

Peter glanced at them. What was he up to now?

"Hookers?"

"No!" Neal sounded shocked. "No, that's Brigitte and her friend."

Peter stared at the women.

"I convinced them to invite us up to their suite," Neal continued. "Brigitte likes me, you can have Claire."

"Are you completely out of your mind?"

"The room is rented in her name," Neal returned. "We're not breaking any laws if she invites us in."

Peter sighed. He did not want to. Not because of any laws, but because he was married. No, because he never ever walked into a room with an unknown woman with the idea of doing something else than drink tea. He did not want to. It was not him.

"The hundred grand and the painting could be inside," Neal grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know if we're sitting in the right place? Peter…"

Neal was right. And it was legal. No one would blame him. Well, no one but his wife maybe. He would not stay long and not be intimate. He was just moving a bit out of his comfort zone.

"Which one's Claire?"

Neal did not reply but opened the door and invited him to get out. The women giggled and the second he stood on the ground he knew he would regret it. Neal guided him over and presented him. Claire looked at him as if he was a Greek god. It was flattering but it made Peter want to flee.

Neal and Brigitte walked towards the hotel, and Clarie was not late to grab him like a trophy and pull him along, following the other couple.

Peter made an effort to chat with her but to his horror, she seemed to only understand French. Which Neal could speak of course, but what he said to Claire about him he did not know and would not have trusted if told.

Claire had to pull him into the hotel room. The two women giggled and laughed and disappeared into a bedroom.

"Claire is cute," Neal told him as if he had not noticed.

"Yeah. She's exactly what I need in my life right now."

"All right," he mumbled and began to scan the room. "There are no men's socks lying around. Brigitte does not look like a girl who's worried about her boyfriend coming home."

"Peter, you have to relax." Neal made four drinks with the aid of the mini bar. "If we have the wrong Brigitte, we'll know soon enough."

Not soon enough by far, Peter thought.

* * *

"Beats sitting in the car eating deviled ham," Neal reminded Peter who did not seem to enjoy life at all.

"All right, fine. The second we find out if Dorsett is staying here we leave and we call in reinforcements."

"Done," Neal agreed.

"They're coming," Peter mumbled.

And out from the bedroom came the two beauties. Neal picked up two of the glasses. Brigitte locked the door to the room from where she came. He exchanged a look with Peter and saw he noticed it too. With his biggest smile, he walked to the ladies and handed them their glasses.

"Voila."

They smiled and took their glasses and thanked him.

"Je vous, je vous."

He returned to Peter and the two other drinks waiting for them.

"She doesn't want us in there," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I saw her lock the door," Peter confirmed.

"If there's a door that connects to the master suite, I can open it."

"No. You can't."

"I won't tell anyone," Neal tried.

"No, no. You understand the rules here."

"Yes, I've heard the speech."

Brigitte had already finished her drink and danced a sexy dance, asking him to put on some music so they could have some fun.

"What's that?" Peter asked.

"They wanna play strip poker," Neal translated just to tease Peter. "I'm kidding. But could you imagine? They want music, all right? Come on, relax." Neal saw the stereo and guided Peter in that direction. "All right. It's over there. Come on."

Neal took Brigitte's outstretched hand and begun to dance with her. She pressed herself close and Neal took the opportunity to take her key.

"Just un moment," he smiled at her and backed away and slipped into the bathroom. Peter was too occupied to understand the stereo to see what was happening before Neal had locked the door.

"Neal, I know what you're doing," his handler hissed.

"Just un moment," Neal assured him.

"Cut the French crap. Get out here."

"Keep them occupied," Neal suggested.

"I can't keep them occupied. I don't speak French."

That was the last he heard of Peter before he slipped into the bedroom through the door he just unlocked. He searched the room in a way Peter would never allow without a warrant. Well, he was not the FBI. He heard the music turn on outside. Where was the painting?

"Hey, Neal," he heard Peter outside. "Caffrey!" Oh, he was upset now. "El called me with these two crazy women in the background."

Neal stared at the large mirror. It had a thick frame. Thick enough to hide something behind it, maybe. He unhooked it. Yes, there it was.

"If Elizabeth holds this over me, I'm revoking your badge," he heard Peter saying. "What aspect of the warrant law are you still struggling with?"

Neal took the frame out and took the painting out of the frame. He would return this to Julianna. It was hers. When the FBI stormed in here and found an empty frame, they would presume Dorsett had sold it or hidden it. Neal grabbed a scarf to cover it when he read the inscription on the back: "To my dearest Julianna. Keep this forever."

Not only was he sure of his choice to return the painting to its true owner. He also wanted Dorsett to know that George Devore took it back.


	23. Neal caught

**Neal is caught**

Peter took Neal for an early lunch. Neal had been up to something last night. He had been gone in that bathroom a long time and Peter was sure he had moved into the master bedroom. Then all the kid had said was that he was sure Dorsett stayed there and they had left and kept it under surveillance.

Neal acted normal. How could the kid be so cool? Sure, Neal had not lied to him and Peter had not asked, but…

They walked back to the office.

"About what happened in the hotel room,"

"Yeah?"

"Let me talk to Elizabeth. It's the least I can do."

So much for the hope of honesty, Peter thought.

"No, the least you can do is nothing, which is exactly what you will do." In prison, in an orange jumpsuit, if you had anything to do with that painting. Damn it, Neal! Peter thought.

"It's my fault," Neal insisted.

"No. I don't need you to lie to my wife." My wife is the least of your problems, pal.

"You gonna do it yourself?"

"No."

"The truth, Peter? Bold choice." Neal sounded impressed. Was the truth so strange to him that he was impressed if someone told the truth?

"Hypothetically," Neal continued "I wouldn't stop complaining, so you let me go into the nightclub and you witnessed the suspect enter after me and had no choice but to follow," Neal fabled.

"It's almost the truth," Peter admitted.

"It's better than alimony."

"Yeah?" Peter remembered what Neal had told him about how he could lie so easily: another angle on truth, so what you say is true enough for you not to be spotted with a lie. Peters phone rang.

"We lost Dorsett," Jones told him at the other end.

"What about the painting and the cash?"

"All gone."

Peter sighed and ended the call. He glanced at Neal.

"Dorsett escaped."

"This is bad," Neal concluded.

"Yeah, this is bad." And he also had a hunch Neal was involved in it somehow.

When they returned to the office Neal left for his desk and Peter to his office. Less then a minute later Jones entered with a file.

"We found something in Dorsett's hotel room."

"Yeah? What?"

"We found the frame," Jones told him. "With this behind the glass."

He opened the file and an origami butterfly was paperclipped to the report.

"This was there instead of the painting?" Peter wanted to be confirmed.

Jones nodded.

"Yeah, that's right."

"Dorsett, he talked about butterflies," Peter remembered.

"Yeah," Jones agreed. "With Caffrey."

Peter took a deep breath.

"Do you think Caffrey took it?" Jones asked and Peter considered. Why would Dorsett leave the frame behind with a butterfly? It was a message. But not to the FBI. Dorsett did not know they had heard their conversation and the butterfly message would only mean anything to Dorsett and Neal. But Dorsett had no reason to believe Neal would come here and find the empty frame. It had been a message to Dorsett.

"Yeah. I think the son-of-a-bitch took it," Peter hissed.

"Shall we arrest him?"

Peter watched Neal at his desk.

"No, not yet. Let's focus on Dorsett and find him."

"Peter…"

"We know where Neal is. Dorsett is dangerous and I want him off the streets. We may need Neal to get him. I'll cuff him, but for now, it can wait." Oh, yes, he would cuff him, no doubt about it.

* * *

Neal glanced at Peter and Jones. What had they found? Had they found the butterfly?

Considering his current situation it had been a stupid idea to leave the butterfly. Before the anklet, he had not cared if the FBI or any other part of the law enforcement saw it, too. He had not considered what would happen now when the FBI got into the room and found an empty frame with a message. Peter knew he had been in the room alone long enough to be guilty.

He met Peter's eyes. What would happen if Peter thought he was guilty? Would he come out and cuff him or would he wait?

Jones left the room. Did the agent stare at him? Or was it just a glance because Neal looked at him?

Neal focused on the work in front of him. He could act normal. He could hide that he was nervous.

* * *

While he made dinner with his wife he told her about the last days' events.

"You know, this one may be a real problem, El." He placed the pot on the table.

El had finished laying the table and sat down.

"So if you don't find Dorsett, what happens to Neal?"

"He's done. He's back inside."

"Do you actually think he stole it?"

Peter grabbed the wine bottle and the two glasses.

"Yeah." He nodded "Yeah…" He stole it alright.

"You gonna be okay?"

He should be more worried where his career would go after losing that amount of cash.

"Yeah, I'll be-" Fine? No. Damn it! He liked Neal. But Neal stole the painting, not he. He put those emotions away for now. "I'll be fine. Honey, listen. About last night at the hotel."

"You mean, the nightclub?" Elisabeth grinned at him.

"Yeah, well. Neal was complaining about my sandwich, he started fidgeting with the radio, so I..." Peter felt there was no use for excuses. "There was no nightclub."

"I know. You don't think after ten years, I know when you're… stretching the truth?"

"Well, that's a nice way of putting it."

"Next time, just tell me."

She was not upset or angry, did not blame him.

"That's what I told Neal."

"Then stick to it."

"I will."

"I know you're a good man."

Oh god how much he loved this woman. She had such faith in him. She was strong, independent, and trusted him. He wanted to grow old with El. He served her wine.

"Was she cute?"

"No…" Peter was taken aback. "Now, that depends on your definition, because I…" He laughed. "I gotta plead the Fifth on this one."

"Yeah, okay."

* * *

Neal watched his view over Manhattan from his roof-top terrace. Peter was in trouble with the money gone. And the painting, though the painting was a lesser problem. It had not belonged to the FBI in the first place. Peter had lost the FBI's money. Why did it trouble him so much? The other agents had been careless and appeared suspicious and got Dorsett on edge. It was not Peter's fault. He would go free.

But what about him? Did Peter suspect he stole the painting? He was under constant surveillance. No need to take him right away. Maybe it was him stealing the painting that would cause Peter trouble, not the money by themselves. Neal had never thought about how vulnerable Peter was with him on the tail. He was a convict and what he did during working hours was Peter's responsibility.

That made Neal aware of _his_ responsibility. And this responsibility he had taken on by his own choice when he cut the deal. It was more than gambling with prison time now. He had put Peter's career in danger.

Neal pulled out one of the smaller drawers from the gigantic, antique bureau he had in his room. He knocked out the bottom of it. It was just about the same size of the painting. He would set things right.

His phone rang. It was a hidden number. Not a good sign.

"Who is this?" he answered the call.

"I could ask you the same thing. You seem to have many names, George."

"Dorsett." This was not good. "How did you get this number?"

"You bought my girlfriend a drink with your credit card. I'm impressed with your resourcefulness. Now you will see mine. I want the painting. If it is not returned, Joshua will pay a visit to your beautiful friend at the gallery."

"You leave her out of this."

"Brigitte was out of bounds, yet you involved her. You set the rules, now you must play by them."

"I need two days," Neal tried.

"That's all you have." Dorsett hung up. Two days could work. He called Mozzie and told him it was an emergency. His friend would not be happy about this.

* * *

"You stole the painting?!" Mozzie yelled in disbelief.

"I was going to give it back to Julianna," Neal defended himself.

"You're like a child. No sense of consequence." Moz was right there and Neal knew it.

"Okay. Will you look at the inscription?" He showed it to his friend. "Channing Curator said he authenticated the painting before it was stolen. He saw that it belonged to Julianna and chose to ignore it."

"And you're Robin Hood? And did I forget to mention the part where you stole the painting?!" Just as he, Moz feared Neal would go back to prison.

"I didn't think Dorsett would get away." Neal had left the butterfly for Dorsett to find. And he had. But so had the FBI, probably.

"This is because you don't like the guy from the Channing. You did this for spite."

"I've done things for less." Mozzie was right again. He had done it because the curator had pissed him off. And now it had cost him. "I can't let him go after Taryn."

"So, what are you gonna do?"

"Tell Peter."

"No, no, no. He put you back in prison."

"Moz, I can't let anything happen to Taryn. You said it yourself, I acted on an impulse and for spite. Look, I hope I can talk to Peter." He saw Mozzie's skeptical look. "What else do you want me to do? Run?"

"It's an option."

"No. Peter will catch me and I'll be back in prison for life. If he arrests me for the art theft it'll just add a few years." His friend did not seem convinced. "It's my life, okay? Kate is still out there."

* * *

Elisabeth came up the stairs and told him Neal waited for him in the living room, said it was urgent.

"What impression did you get?" he asked his wife.

"Nervous, I would say. Still smiling and charming, but, you know, tense."

Peter walked down the stairs. Neal sat by the dining-room table. Yes, he did seem nervous. Well, whatever his problem was it was nothing compared to what would happen tomorrow. Damn kid! This was working so well, he was thinking as he sat down. Why did you have to screw it up?

"This better be good." Peter glared at Neal.

The kid took a deep breath.

"I took the painting," Neal confessed and for once he did not smile.

"Damn it, Neal." Peter had been pretty sure the kid had taken it but now he had a confession of an actual crime. He had to act. There was no way out now.

"I wasn't gonna—" Neal begun but Peter did not want to hear and held up a finger. "I did it for—" Neal tried again but Peter was still not retentive for any excuses. "We can use it to catch Dorsett," Neal said and caught Peter's attention. "He doesn't know I work for you."

He considered. It could work.

"We'll set it up tomorrow. Now get the hell out of my house."

"Okay," Neal agreed and walked towards the door. "Good night, Elizabeth."

"Night, Neal," she replied. He heard the door open and close. So Neal had decided to confess to a crime. Why? He opened the file and pulled the butterfly lose. Dorsett knew 'George' had stolen the painting.

He felt El's arms around him.

"Well, he told you the truth about the painting."

Peter nodded and held the origami butterfly that bothered him so.

"Because they threatened Taryn," he realized. Neal may not fancy Taryn but he would never let anyone to get hurt. He was even prepared to go back to prison to keep her safe if his theory was right.

"It's a start."

"Yeah. It's a start." No, he would not arrest Neal for this. He had done the right thing. The damn kid had shown Peter there was hope after all.


	24. Things at their right place

**Things at their right place**

The next day at the office Peter brought him directly into his room.

"Neal, we'll soon have a meeting, and I wanted to prepare you. You need to tell the team you stole the painting."

Neal stared. This he had not seen coming.

"Peter, I…"

"I'll tell the painting is found and that we'll use it to catch Dorsett. The team knows what we found in the hotel suite, Caffrey." 'Caffrey' as to remind him he was a criminal. Only Peter called him 'Neal'. The others kept their distance.

"So you knew it was me?"

"Yeah."

Neal swallowed. Peter had known.

"But you didn't bring me in…"

"Dorsett was a bigger problem at the moment. Without you, I was afraid we wouldn't find him again." Peter gave him a stern look. "I wasn't giving you a slack if that's what you think."

"I wasn't." He had hoped so, though. But he knew Peter.

"You know I'll have to give you house arrest for this, right?"

Neal nodded. It was nothing compared to being sent back to prison. When he came into Peter's office, prison had still been a possible ending of the day. Now it seemed as if he was off that hook.

"What do we do with Dorsett?" he asked to steer the conversation towards something more interesting.

"We'll meet Jones and Cruz in the conference room soon. I know you've been working hard for their trust. But this time it was you ruining it, not I. If you want them to trust you again, you need to tell them the truth."

Neal knew Peter was right but he was not happy about it.

"Neal?"

"If this is part of your punishment, just tell me so."

Peter studied him.

"I hadn't thought about it that way. Is that the way you feel about it?" Neal gave a nod. "Well, you did steal and broke our agreement. Do you prefer to go to prison instead?"

"No. I'll tell them." He would tell them nothing they did not already know. "Thank you."

"You did the right thing telling me, Neal. I hope you understand how glad I am that you did."

It felt good to hear. Neal was glad that he had told, too.

"Why _did_ you tell me?"

Neal stuck to the whole truth and nothing but the truth and told Peter about how he realized he had put Peter's reputation in jeopardy and Dorsett calling on top of that.

"Dorsett called you?"

"Threatened Taryn."

"What did you say?"

"I asked for two days. We'll meet tomorrow."

Peter seemed pleased.

"Shall we join the others?"

Peter took him into the conference room where Jones, Cruz, and a few other team members were waiting. He gave Neal a nod to go ahead. Neal jammed his hands in his pockets and suddenly had cold feet.

"Neal?" Peter prompted.

His eyes left Peter's and they wandered over the assembled in the room.

"I stole the painting," he said. It was done.

"And Dorsett has contacted Neal to get it back," Peter continued and moved the focus from him to their mission. "Neal will deliver the painting tomorrow and we take him down."

"Neal or Dorsett," Jones asked with a smirk.

"Just Dorsett, for now," Peter replied with a grin. "And Neal will spend the next two weeks in house arrest."

Neal was used to his odd position and the jokes. This though felt like a public flogging. It was not a justified reaction. Jones and the others would learn about his punishment for his escapade with the painting one way or the other. At least Peter did not talk behind his back. He was straight forward and clear about things. It was a trait he had learned to admire. Now it made him feel awkward. Just as mention of the anklet had once.

* * *

It was late and Neal worked intensely to get the copy of Girl with a Locket ready for tomorrow. Someone knocked on the door.

"It's me," Mozzie called on the other side of the door. Neal unlocked the door and return to the easel. Mozzie entered.

"Glad to see you're still around. What did the Suit say?"

"He gave me two weeks of house arrest. No visitors."

"Could've been worse," Mozzie nodded and took a look at what he was doing. "And I see you're still returning the original to Julianna."

Neal could hear Mozzie was not overly pleased.

"I am."

"Neal…"

"It's Julianna's painting," Neal said with a tone that ended the discussion. Mozzie kept quiet. He did not even pour himself a glass of wine.

"You know you have absolutely no impulse control," Mozzie told him, watching him work. Neal had heard comments on the same theme many times since his friend learned about the painting.

"Hand me the Naples yellow," Neal returned.

Mozzie browsed through the tubes, found the right one and handed it to him.

"Haustenberg's brushwork is much more fluid," Moz informed him. "You're being choppy."

"No, my brushwork is fine." Mozzie was just nervous that Neal would go back to prison.

"This could trick the occasional tourist but this guy at the Channing will not be fooled."

"I'm sure he won't," Neal agreed.

Hours later they both studied the result of his efforts closely.

"This pigment needs to be aged," Mozzie said as if Neal had not thought about it. Moz saw Neal's look. "I'll go preheat the oven."

"It's 125—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know how to age a painting."

If all his friend had to say was that the pigment needed to be aged he would probably fool the curator as long as he kept it to a visual exam.

When the aging was done and they stood side by side even Mozzie had to admit Neal had done a splendid job.

"Well, see you in two weeks, my friend. Can't say that you don't deserve it. You should use the time to contemplate and read some philosophy."

"Thanks, Moz."

Alone, he flipped the two paintings over. The inscription still remained. Neal dipped the brush in white and hoovered with the tip over the back of the painting. He wanted to be sure Julianna kept her portrait of her grandmother. Then he had to be sure his copy was never authenticated for real. He smiled and wrote.

* * *

Peter had picked Neal up at June's.

"You got the painting?" he asked first thing Neal sat down beside him.

Neal nodded and indicated his shoulder bag. The kid looked tired and was not his normal charming self.

"Let me see it."

Neal did not object. He took it out and unpacked it from a scarf. Peter nodded and Neal put it back. He got the car rolling.

"When this is done, you go home, got that?"

"I need to do some shopping. Groceries, you know."

"Fine, do it, just don't… do anything stupid. Just stay at your place."

"Do my time?"

"Yeah."

"How tenuous is my probation?"

"It's pretty thin. We need this one." Though it was Neal who had messed it up, Peter said 'we'. They were still a team.

"It's simple, right?" Was Neal nervous?

"Yeah, so don't make it complicated," Peter instructed. "Take Dorsett down quickly."

"I get him, you trust me again?"

"Yeah, comrade."

"You still gonna verify?"

"Oh, yeah." He did not hear any protests from the kid, but he was not likely happy about it. Who would? But Neal was a convict and he had committed a crime while out on anklet. Of course, he would verify.

Peter stopped a few blocks from the meeting point.

"Here we go," Neal said, gave him a faint smile and got out of the car.

* * *

Neal waited on the isolated place among the cars. He saw Joshua and Dorsett walking towards him.

"I'm surprised you had the guts to come yourself", Neal smirked.

"It's not bravery," Dorsett objected. "I simply don't trust Joshua with a million-dollar painting."

"Is it hard to live like that?" Neal asked as he opened his bag and took out the painting. "Not trusting people closest to you?"

"I suppose," Dorsett nodded in agreement. "But I'll take the money."

Neal handed the painting over to Dorsett.

"You won."

He grabbed the painting from Neal's hands.

"Yes, but it was a good game."

Neal turned and left and the second later he heard Jones' voice behind him.

"FBI! Hands where I can see them!"

He grinned. This one he did right. Now he had just one errand left to do and this would be over. Deliver the painting to Julianna.

* * *

She opened the door and gave him a suspicious look. He took out the painting from his bag and gave it to her. When she saw what it was she glared at him as if he was playing a joke at her.

"What is this?"

"It's your painting, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"Agent Burke said-"

"As you said, Agent Burke does look like an FBI-agent, doesn't he?" Neal smiled at her. She grinned at him in return.

"Come on in," she invited.

"I like the inscription on the back," he told her when they arrived upstairs. Julianna picked up the locket again and opened it. She showed it to Neal. Inside was a black and white photo on each half. One was a photo of Haustenberg himself.

Neal did a quick calculation in his head.

"Haustenberg was her father?"

"Yes. She was his illegitimate daughter," Julianna confirmed. "But he had a family then, in Hungary. It was before the War."

He returned the locket to her.

"How did the painting end up at the Channing?"

"He willed the painting to my grandmother. When he died, the museum chose to ignore his will. Who cares about the illegitimate daughter of a famous artist?"

"It's not theft when rich men do it," Neal sighed.

"How do you know that the Channing won't try to take it back again?"

"If they do, the curator will have to explain why the museum went against Haustenberg's wishes," he replied. "I don't think he wants that."

No, the curator would never tell the painting he got back from the FBI was a fake. Not when he read Neal's message on the back: "My dearest Walter, I know what you saw here last time. NC."

Neal walked home. He had no rush getting there. At home he had two weeks of house arrest waiting and this would be his last walk for a while. It had been worth it. It had been a rash, stupid move but Juliana's joy to get her grandmother's painting back was reward enough to last for a long time. He also knew that Peter had been close to arresting him. He had known more than Neal had figured, and that was the real lesson learned. Kate was still to be found. And he liked this new life of his, working with Peter. He wanted it to last and that meant he could not do what he had done with the portrait. Maybe he was capable of change after all. And maybe he would enjoy it.

* * *

Peter watched the curator from Channing study the painting Neal delivered to Dorsett. Something was wrong. Or was it just his imagination? Neal, what have you done? Did he sit there and offered a forged painting to the Channing museum? A forgery made by one of their own consultants.

Walter turned it over. He seemed to read something on the back.

"Problem?" Peter dared to ask.

"No, no… I'm just overcome with the…" the curator mumbled. He turned the painting back again and looked at them. "I'm thrilled to have the original Haustenberg back where it belongs."

Peter relaxed. Whatever shenanigans Neal had done, it was over. Officially. Damn kid! He was not done with him yet.

Peter stormed into Neal's apartment, not bothering to knock. The kid sprung out of the sofa and dropped the book he was reading in pure surprise.

"There was an inscription on the back of the painting," Peter blurted. "What did it say?"

Neal gazed at him. The kid was not stupid. He knew where this was going.

"To my dearest Julianna. Keep this forever," Neal replied.

Peter clenched his teeth. That inscription would explain a lot.

"It did not say that on the painting I just returned to the curator, did it?"

"Did the curator have any complaints?" Neal asked in return.

The kid did not tell a lie. It was to his credit as always. Peter shook his head.

"What did you write on the back of that painting?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you!"

"Why do you think I wrote anything?"

"Because I think you painted a copy and wrote a personal message to the curator instead of the original inscription."

"Peter, now you're speculating."

"I am," Peter agreed. "Am I right?"

Neal did not reply. Peter took it as a yes.

"You just bought yourself another two weeks of house arrest."

"What? For something you can't prove I did?"

"You want me to prove it? You want me to go to the museum and ask to read what it says on the back? Have the painting authenticated again? No? Then you accept to spend four weeks in this place without argument."

Neal gave in. Nodded.

"Neal…"

"Yeah?"

"If you _ever_ do a stunt like this again on my watch, I'll bring you in. You got that?"

"Yeah. I got that."

Peter had to clench his jaws not to make a speech about that Neal should consider what he had and what he was risking. If the kid had not understood it by now Peter could do little about it.

"Make sure your friend knows you're not allowed any visitors. It'll cause both of us less trouble if he doesn't get here in the first place, alright?"

Neal nodded again.

"I've already told him."

"It counts for four weeks now."

"Thank you for rubbing it in, Peter."

A sudden thought crossed his mind.

"Does this remind you of your isolation after your escape?" He wanted to send a message to Neal, but he did not want to cross the line and torment the kid. He had read the prison records. Those four weeks had been Hell for Neal, for real.

Peter's facial expression must have changed because Neal picked up his thought as easy as if he was reading a book.

"Don't worry, Peter. I've got books, paint, and a view. And I don't blame you for this."

Had Neal just comforted him for feeling bad about giving him house arrest? Why did this kid have to be a criminal? Why could they not have met under other circumstances? Peter found himself saying that he would check on him from time to time and left.

Peter had learned something troublesome. Neal had had less than forty-eight hours to produce a copy of the painting and make it look old enough. He had had no idea that a painting could be copied that fast. Oil needed time to dry to not make the whole painting a brown goo when adding shades and details. That meant that Neal had to spend very little time on planning, finding material and do the actual motif. It meant that Peter was not likely ever to catch the kid while doing a copy.

He drove to Julianna Laszio's place and was greeted with a smile from the young woman.

"Thank you for returning my painting," she said first thing. So, Neal had returned the painting to its owner. That was good to hear. Julianna showed him the portrait back over the fireplace.

"Neal told me it had a fascinating story," Peter tried and the owner of the Haustenberg was more than happy to tell the story. The kid had given away two million dollars for doing what in Neal's world was 'doing the right thing'. In his heart, he understood why Neal had done what he had done. And it made him proud.

* * *

 _This is the end of part II. Do you wish me to continue? Am I doing the series justice?_


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